TOC  SiOGiOG 

'  CftPTiVeS 


CB.C.  jooes 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE  SINGING  CAPTIVES 


By  the   same   author 

QUIET    INTERIOR 

"She  has  a  beautiful  visual  gift  .  .  . 
a  sense  of  character  that  can  be  brilliant 
or  touching."  —  The  New  Statesman. 

"The  whole  novel  is  carried  beyond 
the  bounds  of  commonplace  by  its 
distinction  of  style."— The  Athenaeum. 


THE  SINGING  CAPTIVES 


BY  E.  B.  C.  JONES 

(Mrs.  F.  L.  Lucas) 


"We  think   caged  birds  sing,  when  indeed  they  cry." 

WEBSTER:    The   White  Devil. 


BONI  AND  LIVEEIGHT 
Publishers         New  York 


Copyright,  1922,  by 

BONI  AND  LlVERIGHT,   INC. 


Printed  in  'the  United  States  of  America. 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


PAET  ONE 


"  RODEN,  dear,  you're  so  perverse." 

"Roden  is  so  perverse. " 

"Of  course,  when  Roden 's  in  one  of  his  per- 
verse moods!  .  .  .  " 

When  Lady  Peel  rang  the  changes  thus  upon 
her  favourite  word  of  the  moment  not  only  her 
eldest  son,  Roden,  but  her  husband,  Sir  Harold, 
her  nephew,  Evelyn  Cashel,  and  her  daughters, 
Caroline  and  Stella,  sat  in  a  silence  which  was 
neither  alert  nor  embarrassed  nor  partisan,  but 
merely  profoundly  indifferent. 

Last  autumn  her  word  had  been  "highbrow" ; 
shortly  before  that,  "snobby";  earlier  yet, 
"precious."  Whatever  it  was,  Lady  Peel 
worked  it  to  death,  and  long  before  it  died  it 
ceased  to  make  the  faintest  impression  on  her 
auditors,  whether  they  were  involved  in  the  in- 
dictment or  merely  spectators. 

The  speaker  was  a  small,  brown,  restless, 

simian  woman  with  a  young,  wrinkled  face  and 

eyes  whose  pathos  was  perhaps  misleading.  She 

fidgeted  continually  with  knives  and  forks  and 

9 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


glasses;  flicked  her  diamond  earrings  with  a 
forefinger ;  shifted  a  heavy  chain  of  variegated 
stones  that  seemed  to  chafe  her  neck.  She  was 
not  brilliant  in  her  restlessness ;  in  spite  of  the 
luminous  dark  eyes  there  was  a  dimness  about 
her  face.  Nor  was  her  voice  arresting  ;v  in 
spite  of  its  odd  sudden  drops  into  a  murmur, 
its  gusty  increase  of  volume,  which  bore  no 
relation  to  the  purport  of  the  words,  its  effect 
was  monotonous.  The  whole  impression  was 
one  of  rather  meaningless  and  empty  commo- 
tion. Yet  Lady  Peel  was  not  wholly  insignifi- 
cant. 

None  of  the  company  assembled  at  dinner 
was  altogether  negligible,  to  judge  by  a  first 
appearance.  How  much  of  their  distinction 
was  due  to  their  juxtaposition  and  to  their 
rich,  dark,  gilded  puce-and-umber  background, 
it  is  hard  to  say;  they  certainly  presented  a 
picture  of  pleasing  symmetry;  and  the  Lon- 
don dining-room  enclosed  their  composite  per- 
sonality as  it  were  an  essence.  Upon  its 
brightly-lit  sombreness,  their  faces,  necks, 
shirtfronts  and  hands  detached  themselves 
with  a  sort  of  gay,  careless  emphasis,  at 
once  theatrical  and  intimate.  They  scarcely 
spoke;  only  Lady  Peel's  complaints  dribbled 
10 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


and  clicked  like  billiard  balls  knocked  about  in 
an  idle  moment  with  monotonous  vivacity. 

At  her  left  hand,  her  elder  son,  Roden, 
glowered  and  lowered  more  openly  than  is 
usual  in  polite  society.  His  indifference  to  his 
mother 's  opinion  of  him  was  profound;  but  to 
be  baited  in  public  is  always  odious.  He  was 
remarkably  pale,  with  a  large,  arrogant,  sensi- 
tive nose,  whose  nostrils  were  nearly  vertical, 
and  opaque  brown  eyes.  He  had  a  child-like 
look,  due  partly  to  his  sulky  mouth  and  wavy 
brown  hair;  and  this  look  took  the  mind  back 
further  than  adolescence,  further  than  grubby 
schooldays  and  the  schoolboy's  frown,  into  the 
remoter  period  of  infancy — the  period  of 
splendid  projects,  undiluted  romance,  un- 
imagined  obstacles,  vast  despairs;  the  period, 
too,  of  absolute  faith.  His  face,  to  the  sister 
who  watched  him  covertly,  was  the  type  and 
symbol  of  a  childhood  lost  but  not  regretted; 
it  was  Roden 's  strength  and  singularity  that 
he  had  never  quite  grown  up ;  he  never  looked 
back;  his  face  was  set  always,  childlike,  to  the 
future.  He  was  childlike  both  in  his  sulky 
silences,  as  now,  and  in  his  loquacity,  as  when 
alone  with  Caroline.  He  lacked  moderation, 
the  fruit  of  self -consciousness,  self-criticism; 
11 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


he  had  not  the  intelligent  adult's  fear  of  being 
a  bore;  he  was  anecdotal;  he  related  his 
dreams. 

Yet  Caroline,  the  self-conscious  and  self- 
critical,  was  aware  of  something  beyond  and 
above  his  moodiness  and  triviality,  or  perhaps 
a  part  of  it — a  promise  and  a  power.  He  was 
unhampered  by  the  diffidence,  the  humour,  the 
ironical  self-suspicion  which  shackles  the  in- 
trospective and  the  analytical.  His  sister 
pinned  half  her  faith  to  him;  she  saw  him  as 
a  potential  conqueror.  Lady  Peel,  Stella,  her 
cousin,  Evelyn  Cashel,  she  herself,  might  tor- 
ment him  like  mosquitoes;  if  there  were  a 
noble  beast  in  her  home,  it  was  not  her  large 
blond,  handsome  father,  but  the  mute,  pale, 
lowering  Roden.  She  gave  him  her  unspoken 
support;  the  glance  she  dropped  upon  her 
mother  was  scornful  in  its  cool  indifference; 
Lady  Peel  was  not  worthy  of  her  hostility. 

There  was  none  there,  save  Roden,  in  Caro- 
line's opinion,  worthy  of  any  sharp  or  pro- 
found emotion.  Her  mother,  her  sister,  her 
cousin,  she  frankly  despised;  her  calm,  fair 
father,  the  embodiment  of  a  Frenchman's  idea 
of  an  English  lord,  she  regarded  with  mild 
affection:  at  least  he  kept  quiet.  Lady  Peel's 
12 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


and  Stella 's  restlessness  were  irksome;  the  lat- 
ter 's  femininity  insistent;  it  addressed  itself 
both  to  Sir  Harold  and  to  Evelyn  Cashel, 
drawing  them  into  a  little  circle  of  intimate  al- 
lusiveness.  Caroline  wondered  if  Evelyn 
relished  his  position;  for  he  was  fastidious  in 
many  ways.  Caroline's  fastidiousness  revolted 
against  the  situation  which  his  presence 
created ;  a  rivalry  between  mother  and  daugh- 
ter. She  did,  on  this  account,  spare  him  a 
morsel  of  admiration:  his  manner  was  perfect 
— not  insolent,  nor  proprietary,  nor  humble. 
Judging  by  his  ease,  and  an  occasional  side- 
long smile,  he  enjoyed  his  role;  at  which  judg- 
ment, Caroline's  scorn  over-rode  her  admira- 
tion. 

Evelyn  Cashel  was  a  slender,  fair,  carefully- 
groomed  young  man,  who  sat  with  his  smooth 
head  and  aquiline  profile  gracefully  tilted,  his 
hand  curled  round  his  wine  glass.  In  middle 
age  he  would  be  dried  up,  bird-like;  but  at 
thirty  he  retained  his  clear  complexion,  elas- 
ticity and  bloom.  He  spoke  slowly  with  a  slight 
lisp,  and  with  considerable  emphasis,  and 
avoided  with  consummate  skill  any  serious 
aspect  of  whatever  topic  was  under  discussion. 
So  perfect,  consistent  and  invulnerable  was 
13 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


his  insincerity  that  Caroline  often  wondered 
if  indeed  he  did  dissemble  anything;  if  indeed 
the  highly-finished  exterior  were  not  the  whole 
man. 

A  footman  handed  fruit. 

" Can't  we  have  canary  bananas,  Mother?" 
Stella  asked.  "I  do  hate  these  great  yellow 
Zeppelins." 

"You  should  go  and  live  in  the  Canary  Isl- 
ands, my  dear,"  said  Evelyn,  "and  wear  a 
grass  skirt,  and  behave  like  the  young  person 
in  Rupert  Brooke's  later  poems  and  Gauguin's 
pictures — with  a  beautiful,  innocent  licence." 

"Cabs  is  more  in  that  line,"  Sir  Harold  re- 
marked, glancing  at  his  elder  daughter's 
slender  brownness. 

"Ah,  but  the  point  of  my  idea,  Hal,"  his 
nephew  protested,  "is  that  Stella  would  be  so 
delightfully  .  .  .  perverse  ...  in  those  cir- 
cumstances— like  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  wrecked 
on  a  desert  island  at  the  age  of  sixteen." 

Stella,  small  and  fair,  with  a  pointed  equivo- 
cal face  of  wavering  outline,  laughed;  and 
Lady  Peel  cried,  jangling  her  bracelets: 
' '  What  ideas  you  do  get  hold  of,  Evelyn !  It 's 
as  bad  as  a  French  novel." 

"You  know,  Aunt  Leila,  I  believe  you'd  like 
14 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


me  to  be  rather  wicked  and  loose  for  the  sake 
of  the  vicarious  thrill :  sin  at  second  hand. ' ' 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  you  ridiculous 
boy,"  his  aunt  retorted.  "It's  quite  loose- 
sounding  enough  for  you  to  be  mixed  up  with 
aniline  dyes.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  Hal,  Mr.  Crack- 
ham — or  is  it  Packham? — called  to-day  .  .  . 
Evelyn,  he  said  you  were  an  ornament  to  the 
firm." 

"He  must  have  a  sense  of  humour,"  said 
Caroline  softly. 

There  passed  then  between  her  and  her 
cousin  a  long  look,  neither  hostile  nor  amic- 
able— one  of  cool,  amused,  mutual  measure- 
ment and  comprehension. 

"I'm  glad  you  realise  how  decorative  I  am," 
he  replied  at  last,  smiling  faintly. 

"Of  course,"  said  Caroline  gravely,  dipping 
her  fingers  into  a  bowl  of  water. 

"Hal!"  Stella  suddenly  exclaimed,  "it's 
April,  and  I  must  have  a  new  hat.  I  owe  ten 
pounds." 

After  a  pause  her  father  inquired:  "And 
what  about  Cabs?" 

"Oh,  Cabs  is  never  in  debtl     It's  Evelyn 
and  I  who  are  extravagant." 
15 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


"I  disclaim  this  fellowship  of  vice," 

"You!  Who  daren't  go  down  Savile  Bow 
for  fear  of  duns?" 

"I'll  pay  for  a  new  hat,"  Sir  Harold  an- 
nounced, "in  exchange  for  a  sight  of  your  ac- 
counts. ' ' 

"Hal,  you're  a  mean  pig!  Cabs,  be  a  dear 
and  lend  me  your  accounts  to  show  Hal. ' ' 

"Certainly,"  said  Caroline. 

"You  see,"  Stella  informed  them,  "I'm 
lunching  at  the  Carlton  to-morrow,  with  Geof- 
frey. .  .  .  Can't  we  go  upstairs,  now?  I've 
something  to  show  you,  Evelyn." 

In  the  vast  drawing-room,  rose-coloured  cur- 
tains hid  the  blue  night,  crystal  drops  shrouded 
the  lights,  and  the  walls  were  covered,  incon- 
gruously, with  seascapes.  The  ocean  in  paint 
was  Lady  Peel's  one  constant  artistic  passion, 
although  she  declared  that  the  sea  in  reality 
gave  her  a  sick  headache  at  a  distance  of  five 
miles. 

Released  from  the  dining-room,  the  group's 
composite  personality  evaporated.  Contrasts 
between  them  seemed  less  sharp,  and  at  the 
same  time  each  individual  was  more  himself. 
As  though  to  symbolise  this  independence  Sir 
Harold  prepared,  almost  at  once,  to  leave  the 
16 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


house.  His  younger  daughter,  following  him 
from  the  room,  returned  after  an  interval, 
holding  two  cheques,  one  of  which  she  gave  to 
Caroline. 

They  were  grouped  round  the  hearth,  Roden 
at  Caroline's  feet,  Evelyn  in  a  deep  chair  on 
whose  arm  Stella  perched  herself.  She  showed 
the  young  man  a  pill-box,  bidding  him  guess 
the  contents. 

"  Cocaine?" 

"No.  Patches.  Are  they  made  of  sticking 
plaster?"  Together  they  examined  the  con- 
tents of  the  box.  Then,  glancing  provocatively 
at  her  mother  and  sister,  the  girl  held  a  patch 
to  her  cheek,  and  said  "Where  shall  I  wear 
it?" 

Caroline  watched  her,  coolly  critical.  Lady 
Peel  seemed  not  to  have  heard  or  seen;  but 
suddenly  she  spoke:  "One  gets  so  sick  of  'em! 
They're  all  right  for  a  day  or  two." 

"Oh,  mother,  how  you  do  take  the  gilt  off 
the  gingerbread!  They'll  suit  me,  won't  they, 
Evelyn?" 

"Yes,  my  dear."  He  surveyed  her,  while 
she  leaned  away  from  him,  her  odd  little  face, 
not  modern,  yet  bespeaking  an  infinite  self-as- 
surance, tilted  daintily.  "Come  here,"  Evelyn 
17 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


finally  resumed ;  '  *  one  here ;  and  another  there, 
when  you  wear  your  pink  faille  frock. ' ' 

"According  to  mother,  there'll  only  be  one 
occasion." 

"One  can  do  a  lot  in  that  time,"  said  Caro- 
line. 

Roden  handed  her  his  cigarette  case,  and 
she  took  one,  bending  towards  him  her  sloping 
shoulders,  her  long  neck,  her  fine,  light-boned 
head,  capped  with  dense  brown  hair.  Her 
brows  were  darkly  marked,  like  Roden 's;  but 
her  eyes,  unlike  his,  were  hazel,  lucent,  lucid, 
scrutinising  everyone  and  everything;  more  of- 
ten critical  than  soft.  From  her  brow  her  hair 
sprang  away  in  a  definite  curve,  though  art 
had  flattened  it  over  her  ears;  and  from  her 
teeth  her  upper  lip  sprang  away  with  a  similar 
movement,  while  her  under  lip  came  up,  it 
seemed  with  deliberation,  to  cover  them.  She 
smoked  very  slowly,  husbanding  the  ash  on  the 
cigarette-end,  and  finally  flicking  it  off  with  a 
sure,  quick  gesture.  She  had  these  sudden,  yet 
certain,  movements,  which  might  have  been 
taken  for  signs  of  impulsiveness,  but  which 
could  be  seen  germinating  in  her  mind,  in  her 
poise.  That,  too,  was  how  she  spoke — unhesi- 
tating, sudden,  soft  and  sure  and  clear. 
18 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


"Do  you  remember,  Evelyn,"  Lady  Peel 
asked,  "the  Victorian  Ball  in  1914?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"You  and  Stella  were  in  Paris,  then,  weren't 
you,  Cabs?  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  it?" 

"No;  the  war  intervened,"  the  girl  an- 
swered. 

"Eoden,  you  went  with  us,  didn't  you?" 

Her  son  grunted:  "Yes.  That  Victorian 
coat  was  tight  in  the  arm-holes." 

"We  went  in  the  Vesey's  box,"  his  mother 
resumed.  "In  those  days  there  was  a  motion 
that  Roden  and  Babs  were  ..." 

"Lies,"  Evelyn  supplied. 

"I  thought  it  was  you,  Evelyn,  who  was  so 
devoted  to  Babs  Vesey!"  cried  Stella. 

"Yes  indeed,  now;  but  not  then,"  her  cousin 
retorted. 

There  was  a  pause  while  the  various  inter- 
pretations of  which  this  answer  was  capable 
hovered  in  the  air.  Evelyn  Cashel's  voice  was 
peculiarly  suited  to  innuendo ;  nor  did  he  shirk 
the  silences  which  follow  remarks  full  of  im- 
plication— indeed,  he  seemed  to  savour  them. 
He  sat  in  perfect  ease,  while  two  thin  streams 
of  smoke  issued  from  his  nostrils;  and  finally, 
went  on:  "Babs  in  those  days  was  impossibly 
19 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


ingenuous.  Now-a-days,  there's  nothing  she 
doesn't  know,  which  makes  conversation  not 
only  possible  but  pleasant." 

Caroline  smiled  at  the  fire. 

"All  girls  know  everything  now,"  said  Lady 
Peel,  "but  it  doesn't  seem  to  give  'em  any 
satisfaction.  They  are  so  glum  and  solemn — " 

"I'm  not,"  Stella  protested. 

"And  so  are  the  young  men,"  her  mother 
added. 

"I'm  not,"  said  Evelyn. 

"Roden  is.  Cabs  and  Roden  are  a  very  typi- 
cally modern  pair,  in  my  opinion,"  their  mother 
pursued,  kicking  away  a  footstool  which!  hit 
the  fender  and  caused  the  fire-irons  to  fall 
with  a  clatter.  When  the  din  had  subsided  she 
completed  her  sentence:  "You  do  and  say  all 
you  want,  and  still  you  aren't  pleased." 

"It  was  rather  hard  to  feel  pleased  during 
war,"  Caroline  remarked. 

"But  that's  over  now.  Why  can't  you  en- 
joy life?  You  have  everything  you  want, 
haven't  you?" 

"It's  hard,  I  suppose,  to  shed  things  just 

like  that,"  the  girl  replied  slowly,  marvelling 

yet  again  at  her  mother's  crudity.    Were  three 

years  to  be  counted  an  age,  during  which  even 

20 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


the  loss  of  one's  betrothed  must  be  forgotten? 
Lady  Peel's  crudity  amounted  in  her  next 
speech  to  cruelty — the  ,  trivial,  unconscious 
cruelty  of  a  child  tearing  a  flower  to  pieces. 

"To  shed  things,"  she  echoed,  moving  her 
chin  quickly  from  side  to  side,  while  she 
loosened  her  jewelled  chain.  "To  shed  what? 
What  do  you  mean,  I  wonder?  You  young 

things  are  solemn  and  mysterious  to  a  pitch! 
» 

"To  shed  the  war." 

"Oh,  Cabs,"  cried  Stella  irritably,  "don't  go 
on  repeating  'the  war'  over  and  over  again. 
We've  all  been  in  it." 

"My  dear  Stella,  I'm  not  proprietary  about 
it." 

"Yes.  Evelyn  and  Stella  were  in  it,  too, 
especially  Evelyn;  and  Francis  was,  just  as 
much  as  any  one  who  didn't  fight.  He  isn't 
gloomy,"  said  Lady  Peel. 

Francis  was  her  absent  schoolboy  son. 

"Francis  and  Stella  are  younger  than  Roden 
and  I,"  Caroline  answered.  "They  can  be- 
gin again.  It's  hard  for  us,  nearer  (thirty 
than  twenty,  to  begin  again."  She  spoke 
coolly,  reasonably,  in  the  way  Stella  hated: 
she  felt  her  sister  hating  her  now. 
21 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


"What  about  Evelyn?"  the  latter  asked 
with  hostility. 

"Evelyn's  the  complete  epicure.  As  long  as 
good  food  and  hot  water  are  available  he  re- 
tains his  equanimity." 

"I  hope  you  feel  crushed,"  said  Stella  to 
her  cousin. 

"But  I  admire  her,  while  she  dissects  me," 
he  answered. 

"Dissect!  Dissect!  That's  exactly  what  they 
do  now-a-days.  Evelyn  has  the  word,"  cried 
Lady  Peel. 

"Now,  Aunt  Leila,  don't  you  appropriate  it. 
It's  my  copyright;  you've  got  quite  enough 
words  already." 

"I  don't  mind  your  teasing  me,  Evelyn,  be- 
cause at  least  you're  gay." 

"I'm  gay,  I'm  gay,  too,"  gurgled  her 
younger  daughter,  swinging  one  leg  violently, 
while  she  supported  herself  with  a  hand  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder.  "I  want  a  smoke." 

Her  cousin  opened  his  case ;  it  was  empty. 

"Oh  dear!  Roden,  give  me  a  cigarette,"  she 
commanded. 

Her  brother  handed  her  his  case  in  silence. 

"Old  glum-face,  why  don't  you  speak?" 
22 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


"Because  I've  no  words  to  waste,"  said 
Roden  gruffly. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  the  ogre!  Oh,  the  sage,  the 
philosopher!"  cried  Stella,  still  swinging  her 
leg.  Her  brother  made  no  answer;  and  pres- 
ently, her  cigarette  alight  between  her  fingers, 
she  sat  still  and  mute  regarding  him.  His 
silence,  his  remoteness  piqued  and  puzzled  her, 
when  she  noticed  him;  and  this  occurred  more 
frequently  than,  to  judge  by  the  number  of 
times  she  addressed  him,  one  would  have 
thought  likely.  He  was  indocile  to  the  process 
of  capture  by  femininity,  quite  unsusceptible. 
The  thought  of  him,  further,  was  indocile  to 
Stella's  particular  method  of  dealing  with 
ideas  that  failed  to  fit  in  her  scheme  of  exis- 
tence. The  queer,  the  mysterious,  the  alien,  the 
intractable,  the  incomprehensible,  were  simply, 
by  her,  put  by.  The  thought  of  Roden  would 
not  be  put  by;  it  continually  cropped  up;  she 
could  not  finally  dismiss  him  from  her  mind. 
She  even  sometimes  missed  him  from  the  din- 
ner-table. She  liked  to  feel  the  gaze  of  his 
opaque  eyes  fixed  on  her,  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  noticed  her;  she  liked  to  elicit  from 
him  a  response,  however  grudging.  She  longed 
now  to  prick  him  into  consciousness  of  her. 
23 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


His  oblivion  as  he  stared  at  the  fire  seemed  a 
challenge.  Then  Evelyn  touched  her  hand,  and 
her  thoughts  slid  away  to  him,  to  herself 
adorned  with  a  beauty-spot,  to  a  vision  of  her- 
self in  a  pink  faille  frock,  walking  into  a  res- 
taurant in  front  of  Evelyn.  .  .  . 

Caroline,  unaware  of  Stella's  interest  in 
their  brother,  although  she  compared  her 
sister's  attacks  on  his  reserve  to  Lady  Peel's, 
marvelled  at  the  strange  house-fellows  which 
blood  and  convention  make.  She  herself  felt 
separated  from  her  family  by  a  gulf;  but  how 
much  further  even  than  she  was  Eoden  spirit- 
ually removed.  She  had  bracketed  him  with 
herself  in  speech  just  now;  but  were  he  and 
she,  in  fact,  any  closer  than  she  and  Stella? 
"Roden  can  begin  again;  just  like  Stella  and 
Francis  can,"  she  said  to  herself.  "He's  not 
too  old  at  twenty-seven,  too  war-worn,  too 
heart-broken.  He'll  live  and  grow  intensely. 
He's  like  a  tree;  one  feels  the  sap  strong  inside 
the  bark;  it'll  break  out  in  leaves  and  fruit. 
Is  it  only  I  that  feel  half-dead,  empty,  and  pur- 
poseless?" 

She  glanced  down  at  Roden,  as  she  put  her- 
self the  question,  and  saw  his  head  drop  for- 
ward with  a  jerk,  then  raise  itself;  his  whole 
24 


THE   SINGING  CAPTIVES 


body  swayed  back  towards  her,  and  his  head 
came  to  rest,  warm  and  solid,  against  her 
knee.  She  bent  with  a  protective  movement 
over  him  and  found  that  he  had  fallen  asleep. 


25 


n. 


IN  1917,  Caroline's  fiance,  Gerald  Sexton,  had 
been  killed  in  Mesopotamia.  Introduced  to  the 
Peels  by  Roden,  whom  he  knew  at  Cambridge, 
Gerald  the  gay,  the  gallant,  the  candid  and 
chivalrous,  had  conquered  'the/  whole  family; 
he  was,  to  them,  a  hero  before  he  put  on  khaki, 
before  he  was  decorated,  before  he  lost  his  life 
in  battle. 

The  Caroline  Peel  of  those  days  was  a  differ- 
ent person  from  the  Caroline  Peel  of  1920. 
Her  family's  united  affection  for  Gerald  had 
positively  recommended  him  to  her;  not  that 
her  feeling  for  the  young  man  was  in  the  least 
spurious ;  it  was,  on  both  sides,  a  genuine  pas- 
sion. It  flowered  slowly  from  seeds  sown  in 
pre-war  days;  it  was  to  have  been  crowned 
in  the  autuntn  of  the  year  in  which  Gerald  was 
killed.  In  the  shock  of  that  event,  Caroline, 
disorientated,  amazed,  with  the  world  crumbl- 
ing about  her,  the  earth  trembling  under  her 
feet,  life  crouching  like  an  assassin  scarcely 
less  hideous  than  death,  had  closed  the  gates 
26 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


of  herself  against  existence,  had  prepared  for 
a  long  siege,  determined  to  eat  her  heart  out 
rather  than  surrender.  There  was  no  one  in 
those  days  to  help  her,  to  persuade  her  to  keep 
open  one  postern,  one  wicket,  so  that  communi- 
cation with  life  should  not  be  utterly  pre- 
vented. Her  family,  in  pity  and  awe,  had  stood 
away>  from  her;  had,  in  their  phrase,,  " re- 
spected her  grief. "  Her  girl  friends  were  too 
young,  or  too  much  occupied  with  their  own 
affairs,  to  take  an  intimate  interest  in  hers. 
She  faced  tragedy  alone.  She  looked  at  life, 
saw  that  it  was  evil,  and  swore  herself  its 
enemy.  Her  own  loss  brought  about  her  first 
sharp  intense  realisation  of  the  war — a  general 
realisation  of  which  her  class,  her  family,  her 
upbringing,  made  extraordinarily  difficult.  Not 
till  Gerald's  death  did  she  come  to  visualise — 
however  inadequately — the  meaning  of  war; 
and  when  she  did,  it  overwhelmed  her.  She 
looked  at  her  surroundings  and  searched  the 
faces  of  her  family  and  friends  for  some  an- 
swering recognition  of  the  immensity  of  the 
catastrophe  in  which  they  were  involved;  she 
perceived  trivial  excitement,  boredom,  self- 
satisfaction,  and  sometimes  the  ravages  of 
grief ;  but  never  the  message  of  comprehension 
27 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


which  would  have  called  out  the  answering 
dignity  in  her.  She  did  not  even  know  her  own 
plight,  bewildered  by  longing,  sickness  and 
woe.  She  hugged  for  comfort  the  catchwords 
concerning  England,  the  patriot's  death,  the 
struggle  for  liberty,  the  eternal  glory  of  the 
noble  dead,  and  found  that  she  was  treasuring 
pinchbeck  jewels.  No  one  in  whom  these 
phrases  were  a  faith  turned  them  for  her  into 
fine  gold ;  and  so  she  began  to  suspect  that  the 
fine  gold  did  not  exist. 

Nor  had  she  any  help  from  the  knowledge 
that  Gerald  had  died  for  a  faith.  She  knew  that 
he  had  been  unselfish  and  courageous;  hitherto, 
this  had  been  enough;  they  had  never  dis- 
cussed the  ethics  of  patriotism;  Gerald  was 
not  an  introspective  or  even  a  thoughtful  per- 
son. The  instinctive  quality  of  his  response  to 
a  national  need  began  to  trouble  her ;  she  could 
not  even  leave  her  lover's  nobility  unques- 
tioned. She  became  a  walking  den  of  unfor- 
mulated  suspicions  and  uneasy  speculations, 
tinged  with  a  hatred  of  herself  for  her  dis- 
loyalty. This  sudden  quick  growth  and  de- 
velopment of  character  affected  her  as  with  a 
malady.  The  family  doctor  treated  her  for 
anaemia. 

28 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


After  several  months  of  such  a  state,  Caro- 
line had  the  good  fortune  to  find  herself  placed 
in  close  relation  to  Gerald's  brother,  Hugh,  re- 
turned from  France,  where  gas  had  incapaci- 
tated him. 

Hugh  Sexton  had  also  been  at  Cambridge 
with  Roden,  whose  contemporary  he  was,  but 
owing  to  his  brother's  attractive  personality 
he  had  been  rather  overlooked  by  the  Peels. 
In  her  new  state  of  mind  Caroline,  from  her 
fortress,  scanned  the  faces  of  all  comers  for  a 
reflection  of  her  own  dismay  and  disillusion. 
She  had  not  yet  quite  given  up  hope,  for  the 
very  reason  that  her  hope  was  not  formulated. 
She  perceived  in  Hugh  something  which  dif- 
ferentiated him  from  her  surroundings;  she 
found  that  he  was  willing  to  talk,  and  that  he 
was  capable  of  expressing  for  her  much  that 
had  seethed  unspoken  in  her  mind.  Tenta- 
tively, he  touched  on  Gerald's  death,  boldly  on 
the  war,  bitterly  on  the  attitude  towards  it  of 
persons  such  as  Lady  Peel.  She  found  that 
Hugh  had  no  spring  of  patriotism,  only  a  dis- 
like of  letting  others  suffer  for  him;  and  yet 
she  could  not  think  him  quite  ignoble;  he  left 
on  her  an  impression  of  fineness  and  sincerity. 
29 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Could  it  then  be  that  there  was  nobility  and 
self-sacrifice  without  that  inspiration? 

For  three  years  now,  Hugh's  and  Caroline's 
friendship  had  endured  and  grown.  To  him 
only  was  she  fully  articulate,  perfectly  candid. 
In  his  presence,  the  reserve  which  appeared  so 
complete  in  the  midst  of  her  family,  melted, 
and  she  exposed  herself  without  fear,  without 
after-thought,  almost  without  restraint. 

Her  silence  at  home  was  largely  due  to  an 
irritable  expectation  amounting  to  certainty 
that  she  would  be  misunderstood;  or  have  to 
repeat  her  words ;  and  to  a  complacent  convic- 
tion that  most  of  what  she  had  to  say  was  too 
interesting  to  be  of  interest  to  such  persons  as 
her  parents,  Stella,  Francis,  Evelyn.  The  lat- 
ter could,  she  knew,  if  he  so  desired,  perfectly 
comprehend  any  utterance  of  hers;  but  he 
shrank  and  shielded  himself  consistently  from 
anything  dark,  deep  or  intricate,  preferring 
the  polished  subleties  and  obscurities  of  Henry 
James'  novels  to  the  sombre  intricacies  of 
actual  experience.  Caroline,  as  a  graceful, 
silent,  occasionally  ironical  presence^  he  ap- 
preciated; but  in  moments  of  expansion,  she 
reminded  him  too  sharply  of  "horrid  realities" 
which  he  preferred  to  forget. 
30 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Koden,  for  very  different  reasons,  con- 
demned his  sister  no  less  straitly  than  did 
Evelyn  to  a  role  of  auditor.  He  had  been  dis- 
mayed, once,  at  her  taking  up  the  cudgels  for 
him  against  Lady  Peel,  using  in  his  defence 
the  weapons  he  most  distrusted:  pointed 
fluency,  light-handed  wit — what  he  mentally 
condemned,  without  using  the  word,  as  facile. 
But  this  was  not  all.  Even  alone  with  him  he 
feared  Caroline's  tongue.  He  valued  her  as  a 
listener,  occasionally  even  as  a  confidante  and 
critic;  but  as  a  party  to  discussion  he  almost 
hated  her;  she  was  tainted  with  the  passion 
for  analysis  and  wit-sharpening  which  he  re- 
garded as  inimical  to  action  and  creation. 
Several  times  after  his  return  from  Prance 
he  had  gruffly  silenced  her  and  she  had  not  re- 
sumed her  efforts  at  self-expression. 

In  the  circles  where  the  propensities  con- 
demned by  Roden  would  have  found  full  play 
Caroline  was  scarcely  more  talkative;  though 
for  a  different  reason.  If  at  home,  she  felt  or 
imagined  her  own  intellectual  and  spiritual 
superiority;  among  her  literary  acquaintances 
she  was  correspondingly  conscious  of  theirs. 
Her  family's  conventionality,  superficiality  and 
obtuseness  compared  with  her,  set,  as  it  were, 
31 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


the  measure  of  her  own  compared  with  her 
clever,  queer,  critical  and  creative  friends. 
She  was  cautious  about  exposing  herself  before 
them;  yet  even  here  she  nursed  an  especial 
complacency — suspecting  these  persons  no  less 
than  her  family  of  coldness,  of  an  absence  of 
the  deepest,  wildest,  most  far-reaching  emo- 
tions. How  they  would  probe,  finger,  handle 
the  most  intimate  topics,  with  never  a  tremor, 
it  seemed,  of  sentiment  or  modesty,  never  a 
moment  of  awe !  And  yet,  at  least,  they  could 
hate.  They  were  languid,  perhaps,  over  their 
loves,  their  joys;  their  malice  was  a  little 
weary ;  but  hatred  of  tyranny,  hypocrisy,  mawk- 
ishness,  cruelty,  woke  them  to  bitter  alert- 
ness; and  this  hatred  seemed  a  less  ignoble, 
personal  and  petty  thing  than  the  emotions  of 
Stella  and  Lady  Peel. 

It  was  Roden,  oddly  enough,  who  had  intro- 
duced her  to  this  circle  of  men  and  women 
from  which  he  had  since  quite  removed  him- 
self. Shortly  before  the  war  he  had  published 
a  book  of  poems,  and  these  had  brought  him 
into  prominence,  though  not  into  popularity, 
with  those  who  watch  for  young  talent  and 
foster  it.  It  had  not  taken  him  very  long  to 
become  disgusted  with  his  patrons,  whom  he 
32 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


regarded  as  the  most  anaemic  of  dilettantes, 
the  flimsiest  of  ''intellectuals."  Their  ideals 
were  repellent  to  him;  and  on  the  outbreak  of 
the  war  he  had  definitely  quarrelled  with  some 
members  of  the  group.  Affection  for  one  par- 
ticular woman,  had,  however,  drawn  him  back 
into  the  hated  circle  whenever  he  returned  to 
London  on  leave ;  and  on  one  of  these  occasions 
Caroline,  recently  emerged  from  the  first 
agonised  period  of  grief,  had  accompanied  him 
thither.  Since  then,  she  had  gone  without 
Roden;  and  doubtless  the  frank,  cynical  disil- 
lusionment from  which  the  members  of  the 
group  suffered  played  its  part  in  her  reaction 
to  her  loss ;  but  so  conscious  was  she  of  poverty 
of  brain,  culture,  education  and  experience  in 
comparison  with  these  /companions  jthaii  she 
made  no  advances,  and  received  none;  remain- 
ing thus  unfriended,  although  in  friendly  re- 
lation, just  where  she  was  most  likely  to  find 
understanding,  if  not  sympathy. 

In  Hugh  Sexton,  however,  she  found  both. 
He  had  the  advantage  over  her  other  acquaint- 
ances of  being  Gerald's  brother,  and  of  having 
witnessed  from  its  conception  her's  and  Ger- 
ald's love.  He  had  known  it,  he  remembered 
it,  in  all  its  stages.  She  had  scarcely  noticed 
33 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


him,  but  he  had  noticed  her;  and  she  was  as- 
tonished and  touched  to  find  how  carefully  he 
had  followed  her  emotional  history.  They  both 
wondered,,  she  with  deep  gratitude,  he  with 
proud  humility,  what  would  have  become  of 
her  sanity  had  the  young  man  remained  in 
France  instead  of  being  invalided  out  of  the 
army  a  few  months  after  his  brother's  death. 
He  had  given  her  untiring  companionship, 
never  obtruding  his  own  very  real  grief  on 
her.  He  had  acted  as  the  young  seldom  do, 
with  complete  selflessness.  It  was  no  wonder 
that  she  admired,  loved,  trusted  him.  He  was 
all  that  Eoden  was  not;  he  gave,  he  did  not 
take. 

Only  rarely  did  he  make  demands  on  her. 
Once  he  had  come  distraught  to  Kensington 
soon  after  breakfast.  It  was  the  day  after  the 
signing  of  the  Armistice.  Eoden  being  still  in 
France,  she  took  Hugh  up  to  her  brother's 
room,  where  there  was  a  gas-fire.  She  lit  it, 
and  crouched  before  it,  while  he  sheltered  his 
ravaged  face  in  his  hands,  leaning  on  the 
mantel-piece. 

"You  haven't  slept,  Hugh." 

"Oh,  Cabs,  how  could  I?  Ever  since  London 
went  mad  yesterday  I've  been  thinking  how 
34 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


typically  damnable  it  was  of  fate  to  kill  Gerald 
and  to  leave  me.  If  he'd  been  merely  gassed 
you  and  he  would  have  lived  happily  ever  after. 
It  seemed  to  me  last  night  that  I  could  never 
face  you  again.  Then,  when  it  got  light,  I 
couldn't  rest  till  I'd  seen  you.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  it  was,  in  some  fiendish  way,  my  fault." 

Caroline  heard  the  wave  of  nervous  emotion 
climbing  the  steep  breakwater  of  his  control. 
She  began  quickly  to  speak.  "You'll  see  by 
noon  how  foolish  you've  been.  Even  in  Lon- 
doners there's  something  which  knows  what 
time  it  is.  Something  in  me  knows  when  it's 
noon  and  when  it's  midnight,  although  I  my- 
self don't.  When  you  wake  feeling  low  and 
cold  and  deserted  in  the  night  it's  almost  cer- 
tain to  be  two  or  three  o'clock.  One's  often  a 
little  mad  in  the  night.  At  noon  one  is  matter- 
of-fact." 

She  paused,  and  the  young  man  shifted  his 
position  and  faced  her,  his  shoulders  character- 
istically a  little  hunched,  his  mouth  crinkled  at 
the  corners  with  the  effort  of  restraint,  the 
mauve  stains  of  insomnia  under  his  slow- 
moving  eyes — grey  meditative  eyes  in  a  fair, 
keen  Danish  face. 

She  looked  at  him  compassionately;  and 
35 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


under  her  scrutiny  he  smiled,  and  brought  out : 
"  'Poete,  prends  ton  luth.'  Go  on;  you're  not 
eloquent,  yet  you're  poetical  .  .  .  Cabs,  is  liv- 
ing worth  all  this  trouble?  What  care  and 
energy  we  waste  on  the  effort  to  earn  our  liv- 
ings and  not  to  cry  in  public ! ' '  He  felt  for  his 
pipe. 

But  Caroline  pursued  her  theme:  " Haven't 
you  often  made  the  most  wonderful  plans  in 
the  night,  which  make  you  blush  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  their  idiocy,  or — what  is  itf — grandilo- 
quence?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"That's  what  makes  Eoden  different  from 
us,  you  know.  He  doesn't  blush  in  the  morn- 
ing; they  seem  just  as  good  as  they  did  in  bed 
.  .  .  Your  feelings  last  night,  Hugh — I  quite 
understand  them.  They  were  simply  dis- 
torted." 

"So  Roden,  then,  is  perpetually  distorted?" 

"No,  no.  He  has  the  horrors  sometimes,  of 
course.  I  can't  explain  him.  But  those  very 
conceited  ideas  of  oneself  and  one's  ability 
that  you  and  I  only  have  at  night  and  in  soli- 
tude aren't  destroyed  for  Roden  by  daylight 
and  the  world." 

Although  she  had  led  the  talk  round  to  her 
36 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


brother,  Caroline  had  not  dismissed  from  her 
mind  Hugh's  first  fantastic  speech.  It  con- 
tinued to  occupy  her  long  after  he  had  left  her. 
It  raised,  not  for  the  first  time,  the  question  of 
how  Gerald's  and  her  life  would  have  fallen 
out  had  they  been  married.  This  speculation, 
fruitless  and  idle  as  it  was,  inevitably  employed 
her  at  times ;  but  for  some  reason  unknown  to 
herself,  she  never  spoke  of  it  to  Hugh  except 
in  passing — not  from  any  fear  of  disloyalty, 
nor  from  a  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  the  topic, 
for  she  intuitively  knew  that  what  has  never 
been,  and  can  never  be,  cannot  be  held  sacred. 
This  was  her  one  reserve  from  Hugh;  and  not 
till  much  later  did  she  break  the  silence. 


37 


m. 


IT  was  past  ten  o'clock  of  a  fine  April  morn- 
ing, but  still  Roden  Peel  lay  in  bed,  tossing 
from  side  to  side  and  groaning:  "0  God,  0 
God!  There's  no  use  in  trying  to  have 
friends. " 

This  was  a  favourite,  an  attractive,  a  tor- 
menting topic:  it  occupied  a  great  deal  of 
Roden 's  time.  To  the  question  of  what  he 
called  Caroline  and  Ann  Davies  and  Joe  Tucker 
if  not  friends,  Roden  had  no  answer,  save  that 
one  of  his  most  outstanding  and  constant  sen- 
sations was  that  of  friendlessness. 

He  had  returned  from  the  war  full  of  hopes 
and  projects.  Nothing  seemed  too  simple,  too 
splendid,  too  humble,  too  difficult  for  him  to 
do.  He  pictured  a  gay,  crowded,  childlike,  active 
existence  in  the  midst  of  an  appreciative  family 
and  a  circle  of  kind,  enthusiastic,  hard-work- 
ing friends.  He  would  have  no  dealings  with 
the  super-subtle,  the  hypercritical,  the  chatter- 
ing, back-boneless  persons  who  had  tried  to 
1  'take  him  up"  after  the  publication  of  his 
38 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


poems.  Cleverness  he  did  not  demand  in 
people ;  all  that  he  had  to  express  was  compre- 
hensible to  the  least  intellectual  of  minds.  All 
the  large,  the  real,  the  fundamental  things 
were  capable  of  comprehension  by  anybody,  if 
lucidly  expressed.  He,  Eoden,  would  write — 
the  real  democrat — for  everyone. 

Concerning  his  own  part  in  these  schemes, 
he  had  not  been  disappointed;  soon  after  his 
return  to  England  he  had  begun  to  write,  and 
had  completed  ' ' Swedenborg :  A  Drama."  It 
was  the  desired  friends  of  whose  existence  he 
began  to  doubt.  To  begin  with,  his  family 
hardly  seemed  to  notice  him.  Stella,  newly 
grown-up,  looked  at  him  as  at  a  curious 
animal;  his  father,  after  a  few  mild  vain  ef- 
forts at  setting  up  a  current  of  sympathy, 
ignored  him;  and  Lady  Peel,  whose  period  of 
enthusiasm  about  the  stage  happened  to  co- 
incide with  the  completion  of  Roden's  play, 
showed  one  brief  flare  of  interest  only.  Roden 
recalled  the  conversation: — 
"Mother,  I've  finished  my  play." 
"Roden,  how  wonderful!  Is  it  typed?  If 
it's  typed  I'll  show  it  to  Miss  What 's-her-name 
— she's  a  power  in  the  S.  S.  S.  "What  is  it 
about?" 

39 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"  Swedenborg. " 

"Oh  .  .  .  Is  it  like  Ibsen?  Of  course,  Roden, 
dear,  I  know  that  Norway  and  Sweden  are 
very  tragic  and  interesting  and  advanced;  but 
I  don't  think  they're  very  popular  just  now. 
Couldn't  it  take  place  in — in  the  Potteries,  say? 
Look  how  Arnold  Bennett  goes  down." 

Since  Roden 's  failure  to  respond  adequately 
to  this  suggestion,  Lady  Peel  had  seemed  un- 
able to  focus  her  gaze  on  him.  Besides,  her 
passion  for  the  stage  had  soon  subsided. 

Sir  Harold,  after  one  attempt  to  interest  his 
son  in  a  commercial  opening  which  would  have 
provided  him  with  a  salary  and  later  a  partner- 
ship, had  let  the  young  man  alone.  The 
vacancy  was  filled  by  Evelyn  Cashel.  When 
announcing  to  his  family  that  aniline  dyes  had 
absorbed  their  cousin's  daily  energy,  Sir  Har- 
old had  thrown  out  one  question  to  Roden: 
"What  do  you  think  of  doing?" 

"I  shall  write,"  was  the  reply,  received  in 
silence. 

His  family,  then,  with  the  exception  of  the 
fond  though  critical  Caroline,  did  not  provide 
the  nucleus  of  sympathy  which  Roden  needed. 
Caroline  herself  was  sure  that  he  would  find 
the  necessary  friends,  in  spite  of  difficulties  at 
40 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


the  outset.  Roden,  tossing  in  bed,  remembered 
fragments  of  conversation  with  her: 

''You  don't  try  to  make  people  like  you — 
not  even  Hal  and  mother  and  Stella." 

"If  I  do  try,  they  don't.  They  must  take  me 
as  I  am,  or  leave  me." 

"Well,  don't  grouse  if  they  leave  you;  and 
anyway,  7  take  you." 

"You're  no  good.  You're  a  pessimist.  I 
want  some  one  who'll  love  life  as  I  do,  and  do 
all  the  things  there  are  to  be  done." 

"Such  asf" 

"For  instance,  I  enjoy  everyday,  ordinary 
things  and  people.  You  only  like  them  in 
books." 

"That's  art,  isn't  it?  I  like  them  transub- 
stantiated." 

"Damn  long  words!  We  shall  never  under- 
stand each  other." 

"Well,  Eoden,  at  least  we  shall  always  care 
for  each  other." 

"Shall  we?    I'm  not  so  sure." 

"Why?    Do  you  sometimes  hate  me?" 

"IVe  been  pretty  near  it,  Cabs,  when  you 
sneer.  You  despise*  every  one — you  despise 
life,  I  believe." 

He  remembered  vividly  her  long  thoughtful 
41 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


look,  fixed  on  him,  yet  in  reality  seaching  her 
own  mind  for  the  truth.  He  remembered  her 
accent  as  she  replied:  "I  don't  despise  life,  I 
fear  it.  It's  stronger  and  cunninger  than  I — 
it  comes  along  behind  me  and  tries  to  push  me 
under  motor-buses.'* 

"Turn  on  it,  and  you'll  find  it's  on  your  side. 
It's  good  to  be  part  of  life  .  .  .  Oh,  you'll 
never  agree,  so  we  can't  be  friends." 

"But  we  are  friends.  I  have  you  here."  She 
had  touched  her  breast-bone.  "You  and  I  are 
like  Cathy  and  Heathcliffe:  Cathy  is  half 
Stella,  half  me." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Roden  that  this  was 
an  odd  speech  for  a  sister  to  make  to  a  brother. 
Instead  he  had  answered  quickly:  "Your 
Brontes  weren't  afraid  of  melodrama — as  you 
call  it — nor  of  ordinaries.  Nothing's  wasted, 
or  to  be  despised — nothing  and  nobody.  Every 
one  is  of  equal  value  and  interest." 

"Ah,  no." 

"The  only  people  I  despise,"  the  young  man 
had  added  in  sudden  anger,  "are  pessimists, 
because  pessimism  is  a  denial  of  life :  it's  nega- 
tive. They  are  on  the  down-grade." 

"Am  I?" 

"Yes.  It's  they  who  fail,"  he  had  re- 
42 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


affirmed,  his  thoughts  passing  from  her  to  in- 
clude the  hated  intelligentsia. 

Caroline,  with  one  of  her  moments  of  in- 
tuition, had  followed  his  thoughts.  He  re- 
membered her  accusing  him.  of  being  taken  in 
by  the  talk  of  cultured  people,  of  believing 
them  to  be  ineffectual  because  they  were  fluent ; 
and  his  reply: 

"It's  enough  for  me  that  they  are  snobs. 
They  despise  me  because  I  don't  speak  their 
beastly  jargon." 

His  sister,  in  spite  of  these  differences,  had 
done  her  best  to  bring  him  into  contact  with 
sympathetic  acquaintances.  Boden  went  over 
in  memory  his  first  encounter  with  Ann  Davies, 
a  gay,  robust,  blue-eyed  young  woman  with 
whom  Caroline  left  him  to  deal  alone.  Roden's 
first  question:  "What  do  you  do?"  elicited 
from  Ann  that  she  did  anything,  or  rather 
nothing. 

"Isn't  London  enough? — except  when  one's 
in  the  country,  and  that's  better  still." 

"Yes,  indeed.  Let's  go,"  he  had  cried  im- 
pulsively, "to  the  Graf  ton  Galleries.  No,  it's 
dark,  damn  it.  Let's  go  to  a  cinema." 

With  eyes  closed,  lying  in  bed,  he  recalled 
how  Ann  had  written  on  the  back  of  an  en- 
43 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


velope:  " We've  gone  to  a  cinema,"  which  mes- 
sage was  propped  against  his  mother's  draw- 
ing-room clock  for  Caroline  to  find  on  her 
return. 

But  the  promise  of  this  meeting  had  been 
too  hopeful.  He  read  Ann  Davies  "  Sweden- 
bo  rg :  A  Drama, ' '  and,  calling  Caroline  into  his 
room  in  the  evening,  he  had  broken  out: 
1 ' Damn  that  girl,  Cabs!  She  doesn't  know 
when  to  hold  her  tongue." 

"Who  does!" 

"Don't  enrage  me  with  philosophy — I'm 
nearly  off  my  head  as  it  is.  What  a  family !  I 
thought  Ann  was  sane  and  kind;  but  now  I've 
lost  her." 

"What  exactly  did  she  say?" 

"  *  Exactly!'  She  said  a  damned  sight  too 
much.  Either  my  play's  worthless,  or  she's  a 
fool." 

He  remembered  his  anger — the  anger  of  al- 
most a  year  ago;  it  burned  in  him  again  at 
the  thought  of  Ann's  careless,  bruising  words, 
and  of  Caroline's  silence.  Her  silence  seemed 
accusatory. 

' '  Say  it 's  my  play,  say  it :  you  think  it ! "  he 
had  stormed.  "I  know  you  don't  care,  but  I 
thought  she  did." 

44 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


He  knew  now,  even  as  he  tossed  in  his 
fevered  mood  of  retrospect,  that  both  these 
girls  cared  for  himi — Ann  gaily,  light-hearted- 
ly, and  Caroline  in  her  divided,  baffled,  critical, 
constant  manner. 

She  was  sanguine  on  his  behalf;  it  was,  she 
said,  only  a  matter  of  time.  She  knew  that  he 
would  co-ordinate  his  dream  with  reality;  she 
swore  to  that  ability  in  him,  which  was  not  in 
her.  Her  own  dream  had  gone  by  the  board; 
it  would  not  mingle  with  life.  It  was  a  guar- 
antee for  him  that  he  was  so  essentially  dif- 
ferent from  her. 

Meanwhile,  it  was  hard  for  him.  Almost 
every  day  his  mother  indirectly  attacked  what 
she  considered  his  idleness,  and  by  implica- 
tion praised  Evelyn  Cashel  for  his  industry. 
Sir  Harold  was  amiable,  but  made  no  ad- 
vances. Stella  looked  at  him  curiously. 
Evelyn  mildly,  subtly  echoed  Lady  PeePs  un- 
answerable questions — not  for  the  purpose  of 
annoying  Roden,  not  even  solely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  pleasing  his  aunt;  his  motives  were 
seldom  so  simple,  as  Roden  intuitively  and 
Caroline  analytically  knew.  Evelyn's  apparent 
criticism  of  his  cousin,  couched  in  a  cunningly 
transformed  version  of  Lady  PeePs  jerky 
45 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


speech,  was  at  once  a  criticism  of  the  speech 
and  a  flattery  to  the  speaker.  Evelyn  knew, 
none  better,  which  side  his  bread  was  but- 
tered; and  it  was  his  pastime  and  pride  to 
act  on  this  knowledge  while  giving  rein  to  his 
taste  for  satire.  Such  obliquity  infuriated 
Eoden,  rousing  all  that  was  puritan  in  him. 
The  very  thought  of  Evelyn  made  him  scowl. 

It  was  the  thought  of  Evelyn  that  to-day 
made  him  roll  himself  over  in  bed,  and  mutter 
"Damn!  Damnation!"  as  his  elder  sister 
entered  the  room.  "Go  away!"  he  adjured 
her.  Nevertheless,  she  sat  down  by  the  win- 
dow, and  said: 

"I'm  lunching  with  Ann  at  Simpson's  to- 
day. Will  you  come?" 

"No.  I'm  sick  of  Ann.  Of  everybody,  in- 
cluding you.  Why  don't  you  go  away?" 

"I  will,  for  you.  But  I  thought  it  was  on 
my  account  you  told  me  to  go." 

"It  was."    He  lay  staring  at  her. 

"Have  you  had  any  breakfast?" 

"No.    Give  me  a  drink  of  water." 

As  he  drank,  he  glanced  at  her,  and  then 
said:  "You  are  fond  of  me,  Cabs.  I  wonder 
why  you  stand  my  tempers?" 

"  'Beareth  all  things',"  the  girl  answered 
46 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


with  a  slight  grimace,  holding  out  her  hand  for 
the  empty  glass. 

Roden  banged  it  on  his  bed-table  so  that  it 
broke.  '  *  There !  Damn  you,  Caroline,  go  into 
an  asylum;  don't  try  to  be  a  flesh-and-blood 
person.  You  can't  be.  You'd  cut  up  Christ's 
own  body  with  phrases " 

1  'Saint  Paul's,  you  mean." 

*  *  Oh,  hell !  Your  passion  for  tags  is  inhuman 
— it's  indecent." 

"Oh,  no — a  lust,  like  another." 

4  <  Lust,  then.  But  gross  words  are  only  a 
fashion.  It's  all  a  fashion.  You're  a  spiritual 
dandy." 

Still  standing,  her  eyes  on  his  dark  face, 
Caroline  wondered,  as  often  before,  at  its  po- 
tential tragedy,  which  not  even  his  present 
mood  of  childish  fury  obliterated.  In  spite  of 
five  years  of  war,  the  tragedy  was  still  only 
potentially,  not  actually,  there.  She  feared  for 
him,  on  that  account,  at  the  same  time  as  she 
confidently  hoped.  And  yet  it  might  fade,  melt 
into  a  simple  ability  to  enjoy.  There  was  in 
him  a  power  and  a  strength,  which  might  turn 
to  misery  or  to  serenity.  At  present,  it  was  a 
dark,  driving  force;  but  she  thought  that,  used 
and  treated  aright,  it  might  turn  to  a  force  for 
47 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


happiness.  For  she  knew  that  behind  his  tor- 
mented moods,  his  discouragements  and  sense 
of  frustration,  burned  a  faith  in  life,  a  confi- 
dence in  himself,  which  were  the  profoundest 
things  in  him.  This  faith  had  survived  the 
huge  despairs  of  childhood,  the  black  moods 
of  adolescence,  the  drawn-out  ordeal  of  war, 
the  death  of  his  comrades,  the  coldness  of  his 
family ;  and  so  it  would  survive  the  disillusion- 
ments  of  peace  and  of  maturity.  So  strong  was 
her  sense  of  it  in  him,  of  it  being  the  main- 
spring of  his  character,  that  she  did  not  resent 
the  blunt,  even  cruel  indictment  of  her  own 
pessimism  which  sprang  from  it.  She  recog- 
nised his  revolt  against  her  view  of  life  as  the 
revolt  of  the  affirmative  against  the  negative 
temperament. 

What  puzzled  her  was  the  inability  of  his 
face  to  express  his  confidence  in  existence;  the 
opacity  of  his  features  disconcerted  her.  Only 
his  nose,  large,  arrogant,  sensitive,  though  not 
finely  cut,  seemed  to  scent  life  out  as  if  he  were 
the  hunter,  it  the  prey — seemed  to  challenge 
life,  as  though  he  met  it  as  an  equal,  instead  of 
suffering  its  abuses  like  a  captive.  Caroline 
had  once  or  twice,  laughing  at  her  own  sen- 
timentality, kissed  her  brother's  nose;  feeling 
48 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


herself  thus  in  some  way  indentified  with  his 
capacity  and  courage;  as  women,  who  in  old 
days  embroidered  and  embraced  the  standard, 
felt,  when  it  was  carried  into  battle,  that  the 
glory  and  splendour  of  the  struggle  were  not 
wholly  denied  them.  She  kissed  it  now,  despite 
his  motion  of  repulse,  before  she  left  the  room. 


49 


IV. 


AT  noon  Roden  roused  himself,  and  sat  up, 
tousled-headed,  to  stare  out  of  the  window  and 
round  the  room. 

His  room  was  full  of  himself  and  evidences 
of  his  activity.  On  a  large  deal  table  by  the 
window  lay  a  stack  of  papers — the  first 
draft  of  " Harriet  Brown:  A  Melodrama." 
"Swedenborg"  was  in  the  hands  of  an  agent. 
The  table  further  bore  paints,  pencils,  a  draw- 
ing-board and  a  pot  of  murky  water.  Above 
the  fireplace  was  a  pastel  portrait  of  the  Deity, 
surrounded  by  somewhat  homosexual  angels 
with  bobbed  hair;  this  work  of  art,  as  well  as 
Satan,  who,  dressed  in  American  clothes  with 
side  whiskers  and  cloth-topped  boots,  leered  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wardrobe,  was  of  Roden 's 
own  execution. 

By  the  gas-fire  was  one  shelf  of  books,  sup- 
ported by  a  chair.  It  contained:  "Robinson 
Crusoe";  "Dr.  Syntax's  Tour,"  illustrated  by 
Rowlandson;  "War  and  Peace";  a  Chaucer; 
a  Swedish  "Baedeker";  and  Nietzsche's  "Thus 
50 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Spake  Zarathustra,"  on  which  once- treasured 
but  now  unloved  volume  Roden  had  experi- 
mented with  his  notions  of  bookbinding. 

In  Roden 's  nebulous  cloud  of  angry  thoughts 
one  became  clearer  than  the  rest :  hatred  of  his 
frescoes.  He  would  colour-wash  them  lover 
to-morrow, — disgusting  things.  Nevertheless, 
he  remarked  for  the  hundreth  time  the  skill, 
if  not  the  inspiration,  with  which  he  had 
grouped  the  heavenly  attendants;  one  in  par- 
ticular was  masterfully  drawn. 

He  dressed  quickly,  in  dark  grey  clothes; 
and,  without  definite  intention,  with  only  the 
feeblest  impulse,  went  out  and  turned  east- 
wards. It  was  a  beautiful  day.  The  streets 
were  already  emptying  for  the  lunch  hour.  In 
Knightsbridge,  he  stopped  to  gaze  in  the  shop 
windows,  for  he  took  a  deep  interest  in 
women 's  dress. 

He  had  not  yet/  however,  thrown  off  his 
troubled  mood.  In  the  bright  clamour  of  the 
streets  there  still  clung  to  his  brain,  his  hands, 
his  heart,  a  drab  fog,  a  sensation  of  muffled, 
haunted  irritability.  As  though  flying  from 
it,  he  started  resolutely  for  Green  Park. 

When  he  entered  it,  it  seemed  quite  empty. 
After  a  few  paoes  he  noticed  a  girl  sitting  on 
51 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


a  seat,  eating  out  of  a  paper  packet.  There 
was  something  so  familiar  in  her  attitude  that 
he  slackened  his  pace  to  watch  her.  She  was 
dainty,  squirrel-like,  alert,  He  could  not  clearly 
see  her  face,  but  he  was  sure  that  she  kept  a 
wary,  bright  eye  open  for  strangers  and  dis- 
turbances. Approaching,  Roden  became  aware 
of  what  she  reminded  him;  not  only  of  a 
squirrel,  but  also  of  the  slightly  squirreline 
Stella.  This  girl  belonged  to  the  same  type  of 
woman  as  his  sister  and  his  mother — the  type 
which  suggests  the  smaller  animals:  cat,  rab- 
bit, monkey,  rodent.  She  was  not  simian,  as 
was  Lady  Peel;  she  was  too  neatly  finished; 
her  outline  was  too  definite,  her  poise  too  alert. 
Now  that  she  knew  that  a  young  man  was 
watching  her  the  natural  daintiness  of  her 
actions  was  accentuated — became  an  affecta- 
tion. 

Roden  sat  down  beside  her.  After  one  quick, 
sharp  look  at  him,  she  turned  a  trifle  more 
away. 

''It's  lovely,"  Roden  calmly  remarked,  as 
to  the  air.  "D'you  know,  I  can  smell  the  hya- 
cinths in  Hyde  Park — right  across  the  tar  and 
the  petrol?  Sometimes,  I  think  I  shall  be  ill 
with  London's  smells." 
52 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


After  ^  moment  an  answer  came  primly: 
"They  say  the  smells  one  doesn't  smell  are  the 
worst. ' ' 

"As  for  the  din!"  the  young  man  pursued, 
not  noticing  her,  "of  course  I  used  to  think 
it  ruddy.  I  used  to  think  my  ear-drums  would 
split,  before  I  went  to  France.  Now  I  can 
stand  anything — from  the  trump  of  doom 
downwards. ' ' 

"I  suppose  you  can,"  said  the.girL  "I 
must  say  I  used  to  think  my  ears  would  split 
when  first  I  went  to  Gay's.  Of  course,  as  soon 
as  you  start  making  a  noise  yourself,  you 
don't  notice  the  others." 

"On  the  other  hand,  I  seem  to  have  de- 
veloped my  nose  in  France,"  Roden  went  on, 
"you  wouldn't  think  there  could  be  so  many 
smells,  all  bad  ones." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,  would  you?"  She  had 
been  turning  herself  gradually  towards  him, 
and  her  profile  was  now  square  to  his. 
"Smells!"  she  echoed  reminiscently;  and 
added:  "But  the  cloak-room  at  Gay's  beats 
all." 

"What's  Gay's?" 

"It's  where  I  work — Gay's  Pantechnicon 
Corner  .  .  .I'm  second  for  speed  now.  I  be- 
53 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


gan  as  office  girl  in  1917,  and  then  I  learnt  my 
shorthand." 

"You're  a  typist. " 

"Yes;  but  my  shorthand's  better  than  my 
typing,  Mr.  Leslie — that's  my  boss — says. 
'Miss  Draper,'  he  says,  'you'll  never  learn,  not 
ever,  where  to  begin  a  new  paragraph,  not 
unless  I  tell  you.'  But  I'm  second  for  speed 
now,  so  I  don't  mind  what  Mr.  Leslie  says." 

Roden   who,    without   apparently   listening, 
had  taken  in  all  the  essentials  of  this  speech, 
announced  that  he  wrote  plays.    Miss  Draper 
was  suitably  awed;  and,  at  her  silence,  he  at 
last  turned  his  face  to  her,  and  said:  "Would 
you  like  to  type  a  play  for  me?" 
"I  haven't  a  machine  of  my  own." 
"You  could  hire  one — if  I  paid." 
"Oh  yes."    She  offered  him  a  bag:  "Have 
an  acid  drop?"    and    then,    reassembling  her 
errant   formality,    added    primly:    "If   you'll 
excuse  me." 

"No,  thanks.    I'll  smoke.    Have  one?" 
"I  don't  smoke,  thank  you.  Lots  of  the  girls 
smoke;  in  fact  almost  all  of  them  do;  but  I 
don't  see  the  good  of  it.     It  runs  away  with 
money.    How  is  one  to  put  by  for  a  rainy  day 
if  one's  for  ever  buying  cigarettes?" 
54 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"Did  you  say  your  name  was  Draper?" 

She  hesitated.  Rita's  moving  story  of  an 
innocent  girl  led  astray  by  a  licentious  artist 
came  to  her  mind;  these  writers  were  just  the 
same  as  artists,  "sort  of  Bohemian."  How- 
ever, when  the  young  man  said: 

"My  name  is  Roden  Peel,"  her  good  sense 
made  her  reply: 

"Mine  is  Grace  Draper." 

"As  I  came  along,"  said  Roden,  "I  thought 
you  looked  like  a  squirrel  eating  nuts." 

A  return  of  gentility  made  her  voice  arti- 
ficial as  she  answered: 

"I  bring  my  lunch  out  whenever  it's  fine. 
The  air's  good  for  one.  How's  a  girl  to  keep 
herself  fit  and  her  complexion  good,  if  she's 
for  ever  cooped  up  in  a  typing-room1?"  At  the 
end  of  her  little  speech,  her  garrulity  having 
banished  primness,  she  looked  with  open  in- 
terest at  her  companion,  who  gravely  agreed. 

His  worries  had  mysteriously  vanished;  the 
drab  fog  had  lifted  from  his  brain,  had  melted 
from  his  hands  and  heart.  The  smells  of  hya- 
cinths and  Piccadilly,  the  sounds  of  London 
and  this  girl's  voice  had  banished  care.  (  He 
rose  and  produced  a  card,  saying:  "Here's  my 
55 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


address.    I'll  send  you  the  play — or  could  you 
meet  me  here  to-mjorrow? " 

"I  shan't  have  got  the  machine  by  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

There  was  a  pause.  Roden's  thoughts  had 
flown  away  on  the  word  " machine".  Puzzled, 
she  rose  from  the  seat,  and  stood  watching  him 
side-long.  Then,  reminding  herself  that  no  girl 
gets  on  who  is  too  nervous,  she  decided  to  be 
"foward,"  and  added:  "I  might  call  for  your 
play.  Is  it  far?  Of  course,  if  it  was  Putney 
or  Cricklewood.  .  .  ." 

"T'other  side  of  the  Albert  Hall." 

"Oh,  is  that  all!  Well,  I  like  a  stroll  in  my 
lunch  hour,  so  I'll  call  for  it  on  Tuesday — if 
that  suits  you." 

"Thank  you  awfully.    Ask  for  me." 

He  raised  his  hat,  nodded  and  turned  away. 

She  stopped  him  with  an  exclamation,  and 
he  turned  back. 

"Mr.  Peel,  I  don't  know  what  they'll  charge 
for  the  machine." 

"That  doesn't  matter." 

"I  shall  have  to  charge  you  a  shilling  a 
thousand  words — the  usual  charge." 

"That's  all  right." 

56 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


' <I  thought  I'd  better  tell  you.    It's  best  to 
be  businesslike,  isn't  it?" 
"Of  course.    Good-bye. " 

At  lunch  Roden  was,  as  usual,  silent;  but  as 
they  moved  from  table  and  lit  their  cigarettes 
Caroline  and  Stella  fell  into  laughter  over 
some  private  joke.  Under  cover  of  this,  their 
brother,  succumbing  to  an  expansive  impulse, 
told  Lady  Peel  that  he  had  lately  finished  the 
first  draft  of  his  second  play. 

His  mother  fixed  on  him  her  luminous  dark 
eyes,  while  she  ineffectually  scraped  a  match 
on  its  box.  "I  hope,"  she  mumbled  through 
her  cigarette,  "you  aren't  counting  on  me,  dear 
boy.  You  know  I've  severed  all  connection 
with  the  S.S.S.  That  officious  Miss  Thing- 
amabob  made  my  position  simply  impos- 
sible. ..." 

Roden  was  at  sea  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
recollected  her  past  offer  of  help,  and  returned  : 
"Oh,  it's  not  ready  to  be  seen  yet.  And  when 
it  is,  I  shall  send  it  to  my  agent.  He's  already 
got  old  Swedenborg." 

"Can't  we  see  it?"  Stella  cried  suddenly, 
coming  to  his  side. 

"No.    Well,  I  might  read  it  to  you  when — 
when  it's  typed."    His  face  was  inscrutable; 
57 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


and  yet  Stella  perceived  some  clue  in  it,  or  in 
his  tone,  for  she  cried  maliciously: 

"Roden's  in  love  with  a  typist !" 

He  acknowledged  the  accuracy  of  the  guess: 
"I  picked  one  up  in  the  park  to-day."  There 
was  a  sudden  gust  of  laughter  from  Sir  Harold 
and  the  girls.  Lady  Peel  jangled  her  bracelets 
and  said:  "What  does  he  mean?" 

"I  say  I  picked  one  up  in  the  park,"  her  son 
repeated  doggedly.  Even  this  scene  could  not 
drive  away  his  equanimity. 

"A  typewriter?"  Lady  Peel  asked. 

Stella  laughed  again.  They  were  all  grouped 
round  him,  where  he  stood  by  the  littered  din- 
ing-table. 

"No.    A  girl." 

"But  why?" 

"For  some  one  to  talk  to." 

"Haven't  you  anyone  else  to  talk  to?"  said 
Stella. 

Caroline  shrank  away.  There  was  some- 
thing odious  to  her  in  scenes  of  family  life 
neither  gay,  intimate  nor  kind.  Stella  and  her 
mother  might  have  been  urchins  teasing  a  bear, 
while  Sir  Harold,  the  bland  policeman,  looked 
on  impartially.  As  Caroline  moved!  towards 
the  window  Lady  Peel  remarked  with  unusual 
58 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


directness,  but  without  severity — almost  as  if 
automatically : 

"You  wouldn't  need  to  talk  between  break- 
fast and  lunch  if  you  had  some  work  to  do — 
real  work." 

Instead  of  answering  angrily,  instead  of 
turning  away  in  silent  wrath,  Roden  replied 
mildly:  "Well,  I'll  see." 

Caroline  was  surprised.  She  glanced  at  the 
assembled  faces — Lady  Peel's  already  twitch- 
ing dreamily  with  preoccupation;  Stella's  half- 
attentive,  her  mockery  dying  into  boredom ;  Sir 
Harold's  stolid  and  calm;  Roden 's  own,  mutely 
unresponsive.  She  wondered  what  his  words 
implied,  and  what  her  father  made  of  them. 

For  Roden,  in  his  new  mood  of  equanimity, 
the  silence  was  filled  with  a  complacent,  gen- 
teel, but  clear  and  pleasant  voice  which  said: 
"I  don't  see  how  one's  to  get  on  if  one  doesn't 
have  some  work  to  do.  A  girl  must  put  by  for 
a  rainy  day.  You  never  know  with  the  future. 
It's  no  use  trusting  to  luck.  A  girl  has  to  be 
sensible;  if  she  doesn't  look  out  for  herself,  no- 
body else  will.  One  must  do  something,  musn't 
one?  There's  no  harm  in  trying."  And  these 
amiable  platitudes  were  so  applicable  to  his 
own  case  that  they  seemed  oracular,  even  in- 
spiring. No  intellectual  jargon  here!  .  .  . 
59 


V. 


AFTER  spending  Easter  at  Brighton  with  her 
family,  Caroline  felt  in  need — was  it  of  sooth- 
ing or  stimulation?  She  found  a  holiday  with 
them  at  once  hectic  and  dull;  it  affected  her 
like  a  mediocre  game  of  auction  bridge  involv- 
ing bitter  recriminations.  At  all  events,  she 
very  much  wanted  to  see  Hugh;  she  therefore 
telephoned  to  him  immediately  on  her  return 
and  arranged  to  dine  at  his  rooms  in  the 
Temple  on  the  following  evening. 

Hugh  Sexton  was  one  of  those  restful  people 
who  never  prepare  surprises,  verbal  or  other- 
wise ;  he  had  not  that  itch  to  provoke  astonish- 
ment which  makes  some  hosts,  in  other  ways 
delightful,  greet  their  guests  with  a  cracker  in 
the  form  of  a  startling  piece  of  gossip,  an  in- 
triguing ancedote,  an  unexpected  rearrange- 
ment of  the  furniture  or  an  innovation  in  the 
order  of  the  courses  at  dinner.  His  whole  con- 
duct was  of  a  piece  with  his  address — quiet 
without  shyness,  gentle  without  suavity,  char- 
acteristic without  eccentricity.  His  fair,  clean- 
60 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


shaven  face  was  keen  without  being  aquiline; 
though  long,  and  though  fine  in  detail,  its 
corners  were  squarely  turned;  the  thin  mouth, 
finely  squared,  crinkled  at  the  corners  with 
emotion  or  laughter,  but  never  curled ;  the  eyes, 
meditative  and  grey,  opened  widely  to  amuse- 
ment only,  were  never  cold.  He  had  rather 
high  shoulders,  a  very  deep,  gentle  voice,  and 
walked  slowly  since  he  had  been  gassed.  He 
did,  however,  surprise  Caroline,  though  cer- 
tainly without  intention,  by  his  first  remark 
after  their  greetings:  "How  is  Francis  these 
days?" 

"His  holidays  begin  very  soon.  Why  do  you 
ask?" 

He  wondered  for  a  moment.  "Because  you 
none  of  you  ever  speak  of  him." 

"Oh,  he's  quite  mentionable;  the  perfectly 
conventional  public-school  boy,  as  like  his  fel- 
lows as  possible.  .  .  .  Mamma,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  adores  him,  when  she  remembers  him, 
and  when  he 's  there.  He  combines  the  qualities 
of  baby-boy,  slave,  and  decorative  male  appen- 
dage." 

"I  like  him,"  said  Hugh.  "I  prefer  him  to 
the  rest  of  your  family." 

' '  I  quite  understand  that.  You  know  by  now 
61 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


that  I  don't  hold  a  Peel  brief!  .   .    .  Francis, 
d'you  know,  adores  Hal;  I  suppose  because 
he's  all  that  a  public-school-boy's  father  ought 
to  be:  rich,  distinguished,  quietly,  but  perfect- 
ly dressed,  with  a  beard.   ...  I  say,  Hugh, 
you've  not  asked  me  about  Brighton." 
"What  shall  I  ask?    How  is  Brighton?" 
"Very  well,  thanks,  with  a  strong  wind.    It 
was  dreadful." 

"What  on  earth  made  you  go?" 
"Oh,    you    know    my    moments    of    extra- 
ordinary adaptability?    I  hadn't  invented  any- 
where else  to  go." 

"Is  that  your  definition  of  adaptability?" 
"One  of  my  definitions.    We  ate  vast  meals 
four  times  a  day,  with  snacks  in  between;  and 
the  others  played  bridge." 

"Did  Cashel  go?" 

^  "Need  you  ask?  What  would  Mamma  and 
Stella  have  done  without  their  little  Evelyn? 
[  was  cast  for  the  part  of  devoted  daughter  to 
the  distinguished  English  papa;  we  made  what 
the  senile  love  to  call  a  'striking  couple.' 
Don't  you  agree  that  Hal  ought  to  have  been 
a  contemporary  of  Du  Maurier's?  I  wish  he'd 
grow  whiskers.  And  he  would  look  wonderful 
m  an  ulster,  wouldn't  he,  Hugh?  ...  I  must 
62 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


tell  Evelyn  that,  it  will  amuse  him." 

1  'You  do  sometimes  speak  to  Cashel,  then? 
Never  in  my  presence." 

"I  never  speak  at  all  at  home.  But  Evelyn 
and  I  converse  occasionally  in  silence.  To  go 
on  about  Hal :  in  spite  of  his  solidity,  he  has  no 
more — inside  reality,  internal  'me' — what  shall 
I  call  it?" 

*  *  Subjective  existence. ' ' 

"Yes — than  a  type  of  English  aristocracy 
according  to  Madame  Tussaud.  He  doesn't 
wonder  or  worry;  he  hardly  ever  works.  He 
eats  and  smokes  and  plays  bridge  and  goes  to 
the  club  and  directs  companies;  and  they  pay 
twelve  per  cent.  I've  never  seen  him  really 
minding  or  getting  even  mildly  excited  about 
anything.  It  would  be  better  to  be  like  mother! 
Her  activity  of  course  is  all  gas  in  a  teacup; 
but  at  least  she  gets  a  few  thrills  out  of  buzzing 
round.  She  and  Stella  are  really  quite  unreal ; 
their  life  is  one  long  game  of  dolls'  tea  party 
—only  the  dolls  must  have  trousers." 

Hugh  smiled,  and  Caroline's  face  reflected 

his  smile;  but  there  was  in  hers  more  scorn 

than  amusement.  At  once,  however,  a  different 

expression  came  into  her  face,  and  she  began 

63 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


to  look  ashamed  of  herself,  saying  in  a  lower 
voice:  "Am  I  odious?" 

"You're  certainly  unsparing.  I  wonder  if 
you're  right?" 

"Do  you  think  I  underrate  or  misunderstand 
them?" 

Hugh  waited  as  if  considering  the  point ;  but 
finally  evaded  it.  "You  are  infernally  superior 
about  them,  Cabs." 

"I  know  I  am.  I  often  hate  myself  just  as 
much  as  I  despise  them." 

"Why  do  you  so  utterly  despise  them?"  he 
asked,  not  admonishingly  but  without  interest. 
"Of  course  I  know  why:  because  of  what  they 
are,  as  you've  just  described.  But  is  that  des- 
picable? I  mean,  what's  your  standard?" 

It  was  her  turn  to  wonder.  "I  don't  think 
I  know  quite  what  you  mean.  One  thing  I 
know:  that  I  think  it's  despicable  not  to  feel. 
I  can't  help  thinking  I'm  somehow  a  more  real 
person  because  I've "  she  broke  off,  em- 
barrassed. 

"Been  unhappy?  I  know  the  feeling:  the 
aristocracy  of  grief." 

Without  resentment,  indeed  with  keener  in- 
terest, she  looked  at  him  and  nodded. 

"But  aren't  you,"  the  young  man  went  on, 
64 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"almost  certainly  mistaken  about  their  lack  of 
feeling?  After  all,  your  parents  have  presum- 
ably loved  even  if  they  haven't  lost?  And 
Roden " 

"I  don't  include  Boden.  He  feels.  It's  the 
others — those  four,  Hal  and  mother  and  Stella 
and  Francis.  Hal  sits  like  a  'blooming  idol' 
and  chews  the  cud;  mother  and  Stella  chatter 
and  ogle,  and  Francis  takes  a  manly  interest 
in  cricket  and  socks." 

"Whereas  you  are  a  serious  person." 

"Yes.  If  you  deny  it,  it's  merely  to  be,  as" 
Mamma  would  say,  perverse." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  deny  it.  Nor  will  you,  I 
imagine,  deny  that  you're  a  smug,  self-satisfied 
young  member  of  the  Intelligentsia."  He  looked 
at  her  with  gentle  mockery  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  mockery  brought  a  cry  from  her : 

"Oh  Hugh,  I'm  not  really  like  that,  surely 
you  know.  I'm  dissatisfied  with  myself  inside. 
It's  not  only  conceit.  I  know  that  I'm  incap- 
able of  anything  but  pulling  to  bits.  I'm  just 
as  much  of  a  monkey  or  parrot  as  Stella  and 
Mamma.  I  can't  make  anything  out  of  life.  I 
don't  see  how  anyone  can  if  they  have  feelings. 
Life  has  it  both  ways;  if  you're  sensitive,  it 
hurts  you,  and  if  you're  insensitive,  you're 
65 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


worthless,  and  you  don't  enjoy  the  things  most 
worth  enjoying.  Roden  of  course  despises  me 
—he's  'master  of  his  fate'  and  all  that.  And 
that  makes  me  wonder — even  about  him:  can 
he  feel  much?  Why  doesn't  he  pay  more  for 
what  he  gets?  How  does  he  deal  with  misery 
and  poverty  and  cruelty  and  death?  Perhaps 
he  carries  his  creativeness  into  himself. " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  perhaps  he  creates  his  emotions 
and  destroys  them  at  will.  But  then  they 
wouldn't  be  real.  I  don't  know!  .  .  .He's 
queer.  .  .  .  Mother  complains  of  Roden  be- 
cause he's  self-centred  and  sulky  and  un- 
sociable; but  it's  really  me  she  ought  to  nag 
at.  Roden 's  sulkiness  hides  all  kinds  of  splen- 
did things—plans  and  ideas  and  imagination 
and  hope  and  courage  and  the  conviction  that, 
somehow,  all  is  for  the  best.  Whereas  my 
ladylike  reserve  hides  nothing  but — what  is  it? 
Not  despair,  not  even  exactly  disillusion— just 
hopelessness." 

Hugh,  half-way  through  Caroline's  tirade, 
had  been  inclined  to  smile  at  a  tendency  to 
dramatise  which  he  sometimes  suspected,  in 
her ;  but  so  reasonable  and  calm  were  her  man- 
ner and  voice  that  the  inclination  was  only 
66 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


momentary,  and  gave  way  to  grave  attention. 
He  watched  her  throughout,  sitting  alert, 
coloured  but  not  vivid,  not  moving  her  hands 
nor  tossing  her  head,  her  tones  as  controlled 
as  her  poise.  He  found  her  far  more  convinc- 
ing about  herself  than  about  her  family.  She 
did  not  often  talk  at  such  length  except  about 
her  family;  her  seriousness  was  always  tinged 
with  scorn;  he  often  thought  her,  then,  unfair. 
Her  emotion  now  was  too  deep  for  scorn.  She 
arraigned  life  and  herself  in  one  indictment, 
without  irony  or  complacency  or  anger.  He 
waited  while  the  room  absorbed  her  words  into 
its  silence.  Finally,  he  asked  her,  "  Would 
you,  then,  prefer  not  to  live?" 

She  considered  this  question  with  her  eyes 
on  her  plate,  honestly  trying  to  focus  the  nebu- 
lous problem  evoked.  "I  would  prefer,"  she 
then  brought  out,  "never  to  have  been  born. 
I'd  never  kill  myself:  it's  too  difficult,  I'm  too 
cowardly."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 
"Tell  me,  Hugh,  doesn't  everybody  think 
something  deeply  about  life? — even  Stella  and 
mother  and  Hal?  Yet,  if  they  did,  ever,  for  a 
moment  even,  wouldn't  one  know  it  by  some- 
thing in  their  looks?" 

"Ask  Boden— ask  Francis,"  Hugh  replied, 

67 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"they  could  tell  you  more  about  the  others 
than  you  know  or  I  can  guess." 

"But  you  yourself — what  do  you  think? 
Can't  you  tell  me?  With  them  it  would  be  a 
feeling  only,  I  suppose;  with  you,  it  would  be 
partly  a  thought,  like  mine." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  young  man 
lowered  the  apple  he  was  peeling  and  looked 
past  his  companion  at  the  dim  wall  beyond. 
The  lamp  on  the  table,  masked  with  paper,  was 
the  only  light,  and  the  shadowed  remainder  of 
the  room,  dark  with  masses  of  books,  and 
faintly  jewelled  in  one  corner  with  the  aque- 
ous, indecisive  gleam  of  a  mirror,  seemed  to 
wait  to  absorb  his  answer  as  it  had  absorbed 
her  words.  At  last  his  eyes  came  back  to  the 
small  lit  circle  of  the  table,  and  his  intent  com- 
panion ;  he  rested  them  on  her  clear,  grave,  ex- 
pressive face,  and  said  slowly:  "The  same  as 
yon ;  yes,  the  same. ' '  Then  something  impeded 
his  voice,  and  he  went  on  with  difficulty:  "I 
wanted— I  hoped  to  get  done  in  at  the  front." 

Perceiving  his  loss  of  composure,  Caroline 
looked  away  from  him,  and  he  went  on: 

"I  used  to  feel  then,  constantly,  and  I  often 
have  since,  as  though  I  were  beating  against 
bars  I  couldn't  see.  .  .  .  (That's  what  I  think 
68 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


deeply  as  you  say.  But  it's  scarcely  a  thought.) 
.  .  .  Thousands  of  men  got  through  the  bars 
in  the  war;  they  got  killed.  But  I  didn't.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  it's  all  due  to  bad  health — I  used 
not  to  be  like  this  at  Cambridge.  It  dates  from 
the  time  I  had  pneumonia  in  camp." 

Caroline  exclaimed  with  quiet  anger:  "They 
never  should  have  sent  you  out!  That's  part 
of  the  cage,  that's  part  of  the  trap,  that's  one 
way  life  has  of  scoring  off  us." 

1  'But  I  enjoy  myself  all  the  same.  The 
great  thing  is,  Cabs,"  he  pursued  with  a  very 
slight  change  of  tone  from  reminiscence  to  ex- 
hortation, "not  to  fly  too  wide,  not  to  ask  too 
much,  not  to  be  agitated  into  fluttering;  then 
the  cage  seems  big  enough.  .  .  .  Lord!  what 
a  dismal  pair  of  ravens  we  are!" 

"Yes.  But  would  we  rather  be  canaries  who 
don't  know  they're  in  a  cage?  Or  if  they  do 
know  it,  they  are  quite  contented.  In  fact, 
they  like  it." 

"Ah,  but  do  they?"  Hugh  wondered. 

They  rose  from  the  table;  the  young  man 
moved  the  lamp  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  lit  two 
candles  upon  a  shelf  near  the  window.  Here, 
with  the  curtains  drawn  back,  they  sat  looking 
out  into  the  quiet  Temple  court,  filled  with  the 
69 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


dove-grey  evening,  and  brooded  over  by  gently 
stirring  planes.  The  servant  came  in  wit|h. 
coffee,  and  to  clear.  After  that,  there  was 
deep  silence  until  Caroline  shivered. 

"Shall  I  close  the  window?"  Hugh  asked, 
"or  light  the  fire!" 

"No.  Give  me  my  fur,  that's  all.  No,  don't 
shut  it,  I  like  it." 

"There's  nothing  wrong,  is  there?"  he  won- 
dered aloud,  after  he  had  put  the  fur  stole 
round  her  shoulders. 

She  didn't  answer  at  once,  and  when  she  did 
it  was  indirectly:  "You  didn't  think  me  odd, 
did  you,  after  I'd  told  you  about  my  feeling 
for  Ann?" 

"Odd?    Of  course  not." 

"But  it  must  have  seemed  odd  to  you  some- 
times—if you've  ever  thought  about  it — that 
I  haven't  had  a  single  love-affair.  It's  three 
years  since  Gerald's  death." 

"I  have  wondered;  but  you  know  you  told 
me — it  must  have  been  last  autumn — how  you 
still  felt  about  it,  about  him.  Why,  is  it  wear- 
ing off? — as  it's  bound  to." 

"No;  oh  no.  Of  course  it  will  .  .  .  But  in 
another  way  I'm  changed;  or  rather  it  is  that 
I've  realised  something.  It's  rather  dreadful: 
70 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


I've  begun  lately  to  think  that  I've  grown  out 
of  Gerald — not  only  out  of  his  memory.  I  mean 
that,  if  he  were  alive,  I  should  by  now  have 
grown  out  of  him.  Not  out  of  love;  I'm  so 
much  still  in  love  with  him  that  if  he  were 
here  and  we  weren't  already  married  I'd  be 
his  mistress." 

Hugh  fastened  on  the  essential:  "But  you 
wouldn't  marry  him?" 

She  nodded  slowly;  her  hazel  eyes  fixed  on 
him  in  the  candle-light,  troubled  but  still  clear. 

"Well,  and  if  so?"  said  her  companion,  his 
keen  fair  face  dropped  a  little  between  hunched 
shoulders,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  arms  of 
his  chair. 

Caroline,  her  body  in  one  series  of  sloping 
lines,  her  head  raised,  her  palms  pressed  on 
the  seat  of  her  chair,  hesitated  how  to  frame 
her  answer.  There  was  no  impatience  in 
Hugh's  voice  or  look;  he  gave  her  unlimited 
time.  Only  the  fear  of  saying  nothing  because 
silence  was  easiest  forced  her  to  clothe  her 
thought,  however  inadequately :  " But  loyalty?" 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  he  exclaimed  in  his 

deep  voice,  "don't  torment  yourself  on  such  a 

chimerical   account.     Gerald's    dead;   if   he'd 

lived'  you'd  have  developed  differently— per- 

71 


THE    SINGING    CAPTIVES 


haps  less,  certainly  in  a  different  way;  and 
he'd  have  developed  too.  You'd  have  been  an- 
other Cabs,  and  he  wouldn't  have  been  the 
same  Gerald,  after  three  years.  Don't  conjure 
disloyalties  from  the  grave  of  impossibility, 
jferald  would  have  trusted  you;  and  you  must 
trust  the  Gerald  that  would  have  been." 

She  said  nothing,  nor  moved  her  eyes  from 
his  face.  Rising,  he  went  to  the  hearth,  and 
returning  with  his  pipe,  and  leaning  back  on  the 
window-frame  while  he  filled  it,  and  went  on: 
'4If  you  still  feel  this  physical  tie  to  Gerald, 
which  makes  other  men  unattractive  to  you, 
then  that's  to  be  taken  into  account;  it's  a  fact, 
and  as  far  as  it  goes,  it  constitutes  a  relation  to 
him.  But  you,  as  you  are  in  1920,  can't  be 
guilty  of  disloyalty  to  a  man  who  died  in  1917, 
if  the  disloyalty  consists  in  an  imaginary  situ- 
ation—a situation  pre-supposing  that  he  is  still 
alive.  The  only  disloyalty  possible  would  be 
for  you  to  say:  'I  never  loved  Gerald,  he  never 
loved  me,  it  wasn't  real.'  ...  It  seems  best  to 
me  neither  to  deny  the  past  nor  to  be  senti- 
mental about  it;  but  of  the  two,  I  prefer  senti- 
mentality. However,  that's  beside  the  point." 

Caroline  was  glad  that  he  had  not  ceased 
speaking  on  the  climax.  His  last  two  sen- 
72 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


tences  let  her  down  a  gradual  slope  to  a  more 
normal  level  of  discussion. 

"You  agree,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  do  really;  but  you  know  how  bogeys 
rise  up  and  put  one  into  states  of  mind." 

"I  do,  indeed.  .  .  .  You  know,  Cabs,  I  can't 
help  wanting  you  to  fall  in  love  again,  to  get 
over  this  physical  obsession  with  Gerald  and 
exercise  your  normal  inclinations." 

"I  want  to,  too.  And  so  I  shall  some  day, 
soon  perhaps  ...  If  only  I  could  forget  how 
he  looked!  Oh,  Hugh,  it's  still  agonising  to 
remember  the  feel  of  his  hands,  and  his  smell. 
Oh,  Hugh,  it's  so  long  ago,  why  can't  I  for- 
get?" 

"My  poor  Cabs."  He  stood  over  her,  while 
she  looked  piteously,  darkly  up  at  him,  with 
faith  abiding  somewhere  dimly  in  her  that  this, 
her  greatest  friend,  could  free  her  from  the 
old  cherished,  sacred,  formidable  fetters.  He 
only,  however,  repeated  "My  poor  Cabs,"  and 
then  added:  "You  will  forget— no,  you  won't 
forget.  Something  else  will  break  in  on  you, 
and  sweep  your  memories  away." 

"Don't  say  that;  you  frighten  me.  Almost 
anything  that  can  happen  can  hurt  one  so. 
Perhaps  I'm  better  as  I  am,  for  Gerald  can't 
73 


THE    SINGING  CAPTIVES 


die  again,  or  desert  me,  or  turn  out  to  be  a — 
canary.  Yes,  that's  what  I'm  afraid  of — that 
he  would  have  been  like  my  family,  and  per- 
haps have  made  me  like  that,  too.  I  won't  be 
contented  with  a  swinging  perch  and  gilt  bars ; 
I'd  rather  ten  times  over  croak  myself  into  a 
bitter  and  virgin  old  age!"  Her  tone  had^ 
passed  from  apprehension,  through  the  inten- 
sity of  expressing  something  that  had  before 
eluded  her,  into  her  usual  tones  of  mockery. 
As  she  finished,  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him 
for  a  cigarette,  which  he  gave  her.  They  sat 
silent  for  a  long  time.  At  last  Hugh  said:  "To 
return  to  Francis,  what's  going  to  become  of 
him?" 

"The  youngest  canary  is  going,  in  due 
course,  to  Cambridge — unless  he  muffs 
Littlego." 

"And  Roden?" 

"Roden  is  going  to  write.  He  has  written 
two  plays.  Fortunately,  Hal  can  afford  such 
little  luxuries  as  a  literary  son." 

"Yes,  it  is  nice  for  both  of  them,"  the  young 
man  remarked,  smiling.  "Now  let's  play 
chess." 


74 


VI. 


THE  next  morning  Caroline,  going  into  the 
drawing-room,  found  Roden  crouching  before 
the  unlighted  fire,  writing  slowly  and  meticu- 
lously. 

"I  say/'  she  said  as  he  looked  up,  "can  I 
talk?  " 

He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  she  went  on:  "Do 
you  ever  wonder  about  the  family  ?  " 

"I  don't  wonder,  I  know,"  her  brother 
answered.  But  it  was  not  to  discuss  the  family 
that  he  had  interrupted  his  writing.  "Look 
here,  Cabs,  you  must  come  out  to  lunch  with 
me,  for  two  reasons.  I've  had  a  story  accepted 
by  Land  and  Water,  so  I've  money  to  spend; 
and  I  want  you  to  meet  a  girl  called  Grace 
Draper." 

"Right  ...  I  am  glad.  Do  they  pay  well! 
.  .  .  But  what  a  name !  Supposing  you  were 
called  Roden  Bones.  Parents  are  idiots!" 

"We  have  to  lunch  at  half-past  twelve,  be- 
cause she  gets  out  from  work  then." 

Stella  came  in,  dressed  from  neck  to  foot  in 
75 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


mole-colour,  her  fair  hair  pulled  low  over  her 
ears  under  a  hat  of  brilliant  barbaric  colours. 

"Hello,  Stell,"  her  sister  cried,  "  you  're 
got  up  to  the  nines.  I  like  your  hat." 

"Oh,  Cabs,  it's  lovely  to  have  a  new  hat. 
Nothing  in  the  world  matters;  I  don't  care 
what  happens  until  my  hat  palls."  She  took 
some  dancing  steps.  "Mother  and  I  are  going 
to  the  Berkeley  to  meet  Evelyn's  American 
friends." 

"Is  your  hat  aniline?" 

"Woad,  woad  of  course!"  the  younger  girl 
exclaimed  fantastically.  "There's  twelve 
striking— I  must  fly.  I  have  to  see  that 
mother's  nose  is  powdered  properly."  She 
vanished,  and  Caroline  said  to  Roden: 

"It's  time  we  went,  too." 

As  they  walked  to  the  bus  she  cross-ques- 
tioned him  about  Miss  Draper. 

"She's  a  typist  at  Gay's." 

"Gay's  Pantechnicon  Corner  ?  You  do  love 
your  love  with  an  A.  What  is  her  age  and  her 
taste  T  Does  she  play  games  and  live  in  Maida 
Vale  ?  " 

Roden 's  temper  was  good  that  day,  and  he 
replied  with  equanimity:  "She's  got  grit,  she's 
76 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


ambitious,  she'll  get  on.    She's  not  all  talk  and 
cleverness. — " 

"Like  some  young  women  we  know,"  his 
sister  broke  in.  "Well,  you  don't  have  to  go 
to  the  suburbs  to  find  girls  with  ambition  and 
grit.  Are  you  prepared  to  be  a  step-ladder!" 

"Oh,  rot — she  doesn't  require  me,  I  can  tell 
you.  It's  I  who  require  her." 

"Roden,  tell  me,  seriously;  do  you  feel  mis- 
understood ?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  suspicious  of  mockery,  for 
which  her  words  allowed;  but  her  eyes  were 
merely  enquiring,  her  mouth  quite  grave. 
"Don't  ask!"  he  almost  begged  her.  "Well,  if 
you  must  know,  No.  .  .  But  you  want  to  know 
too  much.  That's  what's  wrong  with  people 
like  you  and  Sexton,  you  can't  let  anything  be. 
Now,  with  this  girl  you're  going  to  see,  she 
goes  ahead  with  her  job,  and  let's  me  go  ahead 
with  mine,  and  we  have  fine  talks  when  we're 
together. ' ' 

"But  you  must  talk  about  something? " 

"About  heaps  of  things,  of  course.  But  we 
don't  chop  straws,  and  question  and  doubt 
about  everything.  You  don't  seem  able  to  feel 
sympathy  only." 

77 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


4 'It's  not  worth  any  less  because  one  is  crit- 
ical. However,  you  do  talk — 

"Yes,  but  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  Can't 
you  be  friends  with  some  one  and  know  them 
well  without  putting  everything  into  terms?'* 

"Yes,  when  I  have  once  got  to  know  them 
well  ;  but  the  process  entails  words.  Except 
in  love :  then  sometimes  one  does  seem  to  know 
by  intuition." 

' '  I  always  know  that  way. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  believe  you  do,"  Caroline  agreed. 
There  was  no  grudging  admission  in  her  tone, 
but  a  little  sadness ;  because  Roden,  who  found 
her  friendship  so  little  use,  was  inspired  by 
this  unknown  and  perhaps  not  negligible  and 
yet  surely  ill-educated  girl.  Was  he  then  so 
simple  to  understand  and  to  deal  with — this 
moody,  rather  historic,  passionate,  imagina- 
tive young  man  with  a  hunger  for  life  I 

When  they  reached  the  Soho  restaurant  she 
saw  outside  it  a  small  neat  figure,  vaguely  rem- 
iniscent of  some  one  she  knew.  Before  she 
had  decided  of  whom,  they  were  close  on  the 
stranger,  who  was  holding  out  her  hand 
primly,  and  obviously  hesitating  between  her 
"gentleman  friend"  and  her  "gentleman 
friend's  sister",  (ladies  first). 
78 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"  This  is  my  sister/'  said  Eoden. 

11  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Caroline. 
As  they  entered  she  asked  her  brother:  "Did 
you  order  a  table  ?  " 

"No,  it's  not  full.  I  ordered  lunch  because 
Grace  has  to  be  back  by  half -past  one." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  a  sharnie  ?  "  Miss  Draper  ex- 
claimed. "  I  can't  get  an  extra  ten  minutes 
even  by  asking — not  ever  so  seldom." 

"You're  valuable,"  smiled  the  other  girl; 
and  was  immediately  aware  that  Grace  had 
perceived  the  artificiality  of  this  reply,  and 
that  the  speaker  was  thereby  put  at  a  disad- 
vantage. Controlling  a  tendency  to  blush  for 
herself,  Caroline  sat  silent,  covertly  scrutinis- 
ing her  new  acquaintance.  The  girl  was  cer- 
tainly rather  pretty,  with  a  remarkably  clear 
complexion,  rose-leaf  cheeks,  sharp  bright 
eyes  and  sharply  cut  features. 

"You  do  like  hors  d'oeuvres,  don't  you?" 
Roden  asked,  unconscious  of  the  subtleties 
which  beset  his  sister.  "  And  steak  ?  I  re- 
membered you  liked  chip  potatoes,  and  so  does 
Cabs." 

"I  should  think  I  did!"    Miss   Draper   ex- 
claimed with  genteel  enthusiasm.     "This  is  a 
great  treat  for  me,  you  know,  Miss  Peel." 
79 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"You  like  Soho  ?  "  Caroline  murmured 
tentatively,  wondering  if  the  other's  mincing 
speech  was  habitial,  or  accentuated  by  shyness. 

"I  think  it's  too  quaint.  I  love  to  see  differ- 
ent parts  of  London.  Different  districts  are 
so — well,  so  different,  aren't  they  ?  The  top  of 
a  bus  is  as  good  as  a  carriage  to  me." 

"We  must  go  to  the  Tower  one  Saturday," 
said  Roden,  "you've  never  been  there,  Grace, 
have  you?  Cabs,  do  you  remember  the  dear 
little  houses  just  by  the  Tower  ?  " 

"Yes,  darling  old  cottages." 

"I  do  love  a  piece  of  old  architecture.  It's 
our  misfortune,  Miss  Peel,  to  live  in  a  new 
villa;  I  often  say  to  mother,  How  I  wish  we 
could  have  a  ducky  little  old-world  cottage  in- 
stead." 

"Those  dear  little  cottages  are  the  very 
devil,  if  you  only  knew,"  said  Caroline, 
throwing  caution  completely  away,  for  it  was 
obvious  that  if  she  and  this  girl  were  to  come 
to  any  point  of  sympathy  it  could  only  be 
through  naturalness  ;  and  of  this,  the  onus 
must  rest  on  her,  if  only  because  she  was  the 
elder.  She  saw  that  her  language  had  sur- 
prised without  shocking  Miss  Draper,  and  she 
went  on:  "Personally,  I'd  rather  live  in  a 
80 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


hideous  pink  object  with  a  bow  window  and 
hot  and  cold  water  than  in  an  insanitary  cot- 
tage, however  old-world.  To  begin  with,  I 
can't  bear  what's  called  'outside  sanitation.'  " 
She  ceased  abruptly,  realising  that  in  speaking 
as  she  would  have  spoken  to  her  own  friends 
she  had  perhaps  offended  the  other  girl;  but 
although  a  rather  scared  gleam  of  amusement 
shone  for  a  moment  in  Miss  Draper's  eyes,  she 
was  not  too  shocked  to  reply  with  arch  com- 
posure : 

"  Perhaps  you  have  lived  in  a  cottage,  Miss 
Peel.  Now  I  never  have.  One  always  wants 
to  do  what  one  hasn't  done,  doesn't  one  ?  " 

Caroline,  who  found  the  number  of  units  in 
the  foregoing  sentence  rather  paralysing,  said 
nothing.  The  movements  of  Grace's  head  and 
hands  again  reminded  her  of  some  one,  and 
after  pondering  for  a  few  moments,  she  asked 
Roden  :  "  Who  is  Miss  Draper  like  I  " 

" Mother  and  Stella." 

"That's  it.  You're  right.  Only  mother's 
like  a  monkey  .  .  .  Excuse  me  ;  it's  awfully 
rude  to  talk  like  this— but  you  aren't.  Stella's 
like  some  little  graceful  indeterminate  animal, 
one  doesn't  quite  know  what.  You're  like 
81 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


something  quite  definite,    but    I    don't    know 
what.  Yes  I  do — it's  a  squirrel!" 

"  That's  what  your  brother  said  the  first 
time  I  saw  him,  Miss  Peel  ;  and  I  must  say,  I 
take  it  as  a  compliment.  Mr.  Peel  took  me  to 
Regent's  Park  on  Good  Friday  and  we  saw 
lots  of  the  dear  little  grey  ones,  and  oh,  they 
are  quaint!" 

"Are  you  fond  of  animals  ?  " 

"I'm  very  fond  of  dogs.  Yes,  I  like  a  dear 
little  dog.  But  not  cats— oh  no,  cats  are  creepy 
things.  Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Peel  !  My 
mother  can't  bear  one  in  the  room.  Of  course, 
that's  silly.  Still,  I  do  think  they're  creepy." 

"  I  like  all  animals  moderately,  except  hu- 
mans, and  them  I  either  love  or  hate.  Except 
my  family,  and  I  like  them  moderately." 

"  You  only  despise  us,"  said  Roden. 

Caroline  realised!  then  that  she  had  been 
sententious — she  put  it  down  to  the  strain  pro- 
duced by  Miss  Draper's  gentility.  Was  it  im- 
possible to  be  quite  at  ease  in  her  presence  f 
"I'm  talking  rot,"  she  added.  "I'm  sorry." 

"Oh  no,  Miss  Peel!"    Grace  politely  pro- 
tested.   "  I  was  most  interested  in  what  you 
said.    I  always  like  to  hear  what  people  think. 
And  sometimes  their  ideas  are  too  quaint." 
82 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"  It's  so  hard  to  get  people  to  tell  one  the 
truth." 

"They  do  to  me,"  said  Eoden. 

"The  Lord  knows,"  his  sister  went  on, 
"  it's  hard  enough  to  be  truthful.  I  find  my- 
self preparing  startling  views  so  as  to  sur- 
prise stodgy  people.  It's  awfully  hard  to  ac- 
centuate aspects  of  oneself  according  to  what 
the  other  person  is  like." 

Miss  Draper  looked  bewildered,  and  after  a 
moment  said  with  a  pretty  puzzled  air  :  "Mr. 
Peel,  your  sister  is  too  clever  for  me." 

"It's  only  her  jargon,"  he  answered  gruffly. 

Caroline  wondered  if  he  noticed  the  taking 
manner.  She  wished  for  their  sakes  as  well  as 
her  own  that  she  were  away.  "I'm  sorry," 
she  repeated,  genuinely  regretful  for  her  ob- 
scurity, "I  only  meant  I  found  it  hard  to  be 
honest  and  accurate.  It's  so  easy  to  invent 
opinions." 

"Oh  ...  yes,  I've  never  had  time  to — to 
cultivate  my  mind,"  said  the  other  girl 

"I  haven't  had  the  energy.  I  do  nothing. 
I  fritter  my  time  away.  It  takes  Satan  all  his 
spare  time  to  keep  me  occupied." 

Roden  offered  cigarettes.  Grace  shook  her 
head  saying  archly  :  "Your  brother  does  his 
83 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


best  to  tempt  me,  Miss  Peel,  but  I  won't  give 
in.  I  think  it's  waste  of  good  money,  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  to  say  so." 

11  I  should  think  not,"  was  all  that  Caroline 
found  to  murmur.  The  Peels  as  a  family  took 
their  means  too  much  for  granted  either  to  be 
snobbish  about  them  or  concerned  with  the 
subject  in  general;  it  had  no  resonance  for 
them,  no  overtones,  for  they  were,  except 
Caroline,  indifferent  to  social  problems.  To  in- 
vest in  war-loan  was  their  nearest  approach 
(except  in  the  case  of  Roden,  the  soldier)  to 
acting  or  thinking  as  citizens.  Caroline's  in- 
terest in  people  and  problems  had  inevitably 
brought  her  up  against  the  fundamental  evil 
of  poverty;  but  her  long  training  of  ease  and 
ignorance  still  made  a  barrier  between  her 
and  an  acute  realisation  of  poverty,  so  that  for 
her  it  was  less  an  actual  condition  of  persons 
she  knew  than  a  general  condition  of  a  vague, 
vast  mass  of  the  population.  The  defiance  in 
Grace  Draper's  tone  meant  nothing  to  her  ; 
she  classed  it  with  archness,  primness,  and  a 
too-frequent  repetition  of  proper  names ;  it  did 
not  convey  to  her  the  girl's  sharp  conscious- 
ness of  an  essential  difference  in  their  circum- 
stances, and  her  determination  not  to  be  too 
84 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


much  impressed  by  the  Peel's  wealth,  security, 
leisure,  and  refinement.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  Caroline  that  Grace  saw  the  Peels  in  such 
terms.  Caroline  had  not  even  vaguely  com- 
puted the  yearly  income  of  people  who  live  in 
little  red  villas  on  the  weekly  earnings  of  a 
stenographer  at  Gay's;  she  had  never  set  out 
to  imagine  what  it  would  be  like  to  lunch  every 
day  at  an  A.B.C.  for  a  shilling  or  to  go  without 
cigarettes  so  as  to  buy  a  new  pair  of  shoes. 

The  defiance  in  Grace  *s  voice, ,  however, 
caused  her  to  reflect  that  the  lunch  party  was 
not  being  a  success.  It  was,  from  her  point  of 
view,  a  failure,  because  she  had  missed  the  op- 
portunity of  setting  up  a  rapport  with  Roden's 
friend,  and  thereby  of  pleasing  him,  of  gaining 
his  confidence.  At  worst  Grace  would  depart 
antagonistic,  at  best  puzzled  by,  and  indiffer- 
ent to  her  " gentleman  friend's"  sister. 

When,  however,  Roden  sought  her  out  on 
his  return  from  conducting  Miss  Draper  to 
Gay's,  his  cheerfulness  was  obvious.  "Well, 
did  you  like  her?"  he  asked. 

"She's  pretty.  She's  not  stupid,  either.  But, 
Roden— I  can't  be  natural  with  people  like 
that." 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  were  just  as  you 
85 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


always  are.    I  thought  you  were  being  very 
nice,  and  so  did  Grace." 

"Did  she?"   Caroline  was  astonished. 

"How  queer  you  are,  Cabs.  She  thought  you 
were  very  kind  and  friendly." 

"I  felt  friendly  enough." 

"Well,  that's  all  that  matters." 

"Yes,  if  she  felt  all  right,  .  .  .  How 
odd.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Roden,  do  you  like  her 
very  much?" 

"Awfully.  Better  than  any  of  your  intellect- 
uals. Better  than  any  girl  I  know.  Joe  Tucker 
is  the  only  person  I  like  better." 

"What's  become  of  your  play?" 

"The  agent  is  touting  it  round."  He  paused, 
and  then  added  abruptly:  "I  think  I'm  going 
into  a  motor  firm  as  artist." 

"Roden!  How  thrilling.  Is  it  a  sign  of 
grace!"  It  was  out  before  she  knew  what  she 
was  saying,  and  she  could  have  bitten  her 
tongue  off  to  unsay  the  jibe. 

Without  replying,  her  brother  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"I'm  odious.  Forgive  me.  I  think  I'm  be- 
witched—like the  girl  who  spat  toads  when  she 
talked.  I  don't  mean  to  be  horrible;  I  do  care 
for  you,  Roden." 

86 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"It's  all  right." 

"Are  you  going  to  draw  lovely  pictures  for 
coloured  advertisements,  like  the  ones  in 
Vogue?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I'm  going  to  see  the  man 
about  it  to-morrow." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Blake;  a  chap  in  the  regiment."  He  re- 
fused, characteristically,  to  say  more. 

"Francis  arrives  to-morrow,"  Caroline 
presently  remarked.  Then,  as  the  young  man 
moved  to  the  door,  she  remembered  Hugh's 
advice;  to  ask  her  brothers  their  opinion  of 
their  family.  "Don't  go,"  she  said. 

"I  must.  I've  got  to  finish  my  play  before 
I  take  on  this  new  job.  You  know,"  he  went 
on,  pausing  with  his  hand  on  the  latch,  ' '  Grace 
has  more  cards  than  she  puts  on  the  table." 

Caroline  nodded,  and  he  pursued: 

"She  and  I  understand  each  other  without 
talking.  Her  point  of  view  and  mine  are  the 
same.  She's  got  life  in  her,  she's  serious,  and 
yet  not  heavy." 

"Buoyant,"  his  sister  suggested,  but  he 
wouldn't  accept  a  word  from  her. 

"Not  a  dead  weight,  like  so  many  people  are 
since  the  war."    He  went  out  abruptly. 
87 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"Like  me,"  said  Caroline  to  herself  as  the 
door  closed;  but  speaking  as  though  for  him 
rather  than  for  herself.  She  had  no  sensation 
of  heaviness;  her  health  was  good,  and  the 
dreadfulness  of  life  did  not  obsess  her  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  pleasure.  She  enjoyed  every 
ironical  contingency,  every  interesting  facet, 
every  lovely  aspect  of  existence  that  she  could 
perceive.  Her  sensation  was  that  of  being  in- 
volved in  an  insoluble  and  probably  meaning- 
less conundrum — a  riddle  of  marvellous  com- 
plexity, savour,  beauty,  but  whose  beauty  was 
darkened  with  a  dreadful  shadow  inherent  in 
life's  structure,  and  whose  savour  was  for  her 
spoiled  and  flattened  so  that  it's  taste  was 
often  stale  upon  her  tongue. 


vn. 

WHEN  Caroline  saw  Francis  the  next  day  she 
wondered  how  Hugh  could  like  him  at  all;  his 
jaunty  whistling  composure  repelled  her  even 
while  his  upright,  fresh-coloured  slimness  at- 
tracted her.  Her  speculative  eye  perceived  in 
him  a  younger  Caroline,  graceful  and  com- 
placent. But  there  was  something  in  this 
youth  a  little  underbred.  She  had  noticed  the 
same  thing  in  Roden,  under  quite  a  different 
form.  Francis,  like  his  sisters,  had  the  social 
polish,  the  tact,  the  ease,  the  charm  which  Rod- 
en  remarkably  lacked;  if  anything,  he  had 
them  to  excess.  Was  it  in  this  that  his  in- 
feriority consisted?  And  if  he  were  so  like  her 
superficially,  might  the  resemblance  not  go 
deeper?  Was  she,  then,  second-rate  in  that 
particular,  indefinable  way?  Arrived  at  this 
point,  Caroline  pressed  no  further.  There  are 
some  faults  against  the  conviction  of  which  the 
nature  revolts.  A  man  can  admit  to  being 
jealous,  vindictive,  morbid,  prejudiced;  even 
to  being  mean  and  without  a  sense  of  humour ; 
89 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


but  can  he,  if  he  understood  the  term,  plead 
guilty  to  insensitiveness — toj  a  coarseness  in 
the  fabric  of  his  soul? 

That  Francis  was  sensitive  in  the  more  or- 
dinary sense — that  he  had  a  vulnerable  vanity 
— none  looking  at  him  would  doubt.  The  cock 
of  his  head  was  complacent;  but  his  eyes  were 
watchful  for  criticism.  He  had.  Caroline's 
clear  hazel  eyes,  short  upper  lip,  brown  hair, 
long  legs,  but  there  was  an  extreme  shallow- 
ness  in  the  modelling  of  his  face  which  made 
the  whole  resemblance  superficial,  unless  the 
shallowness  were  due  merely  to  youth.  Caro- 
line, after  her  scrutiny  of  him,  had  the  curios- 
ity to  seek  out  a  photograph  of  herself  in  her 
teens.  The  camera  had  by  chance  caught  her 
in  a  characteristic  pose — head  tilted  a  little 
downwards,  the  gaze  a  little  sideways  and  up- 
wards, very  solemn.  She  compared  it  with  her 
face  in  the  mirror;  yes,  even  at  seventeen,  there 
were  those  shadows,  those  lines,  that  lurking 
ambiguity.  The  chief  difference  was  the  trans- 
formation of  that  dominant  seriousness  into 
an  expression  of  faintly  ironic  gravity.  Even 
at  seventeen,  she  thought  without  vanity,  her 
expression  must  have  demanded  a  second  look; 
but  in  Francis's  face  there  was  nothing  equi- 
90 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


vocal,  nothing  held  back;  it  told  as  much  and 
as  little  as  the  sleekness  of  his  hair  and  the 
crease  of  his  trousers. 

Whether  or  not  because  he  was!  aware  of 
Caroline's  sentiments  concerning  him,  Francis 
evidently  preferred,  in  the  absence  of  Sir 
Harold,  to  be  with  Stella.  This  was  natural; 
there  were  only  four  years  between  them, 
whereas  to  meet  his  elder  sister  he  had  to 
bridge  a  decade.  Like  most  families  of  four, 
this  had  always  split  into  couples.  Roden  and 
Caroline,  perhaps  because  they  were  so  differ- 
ent, had  grudgingly  admired  each  other  from 
earliest  childhood,  and  they  still  did.  The  al- 
liance of  Stella  and  Francis,  though  superfi- 
cially more  comprehensible,  was  in  reality  no 
more  founded  on  mutual  sympathy  than  was 
the  elder  pair's,  and  it  endured  a  shorter  time. 

For  three  years,  now,  ever  since  she  left  the 
schoolroom,  Stella  had  paid  little  attention  to 
her  schoolboy  brother,  except  to  make  use  of 
him.  Caroline,  wondering  at  the  readiness 
with  which  Francis  allowed  himself  to  be  made 
use  of,  had  a  short  time  since  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  due  to  the  credit  which  his 
complaisance  obtained  him  with  their  father. 
Sir  Harold  liked,  and  showed  that  he  liked,  to 
91 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


see  Stella's  caprices  served;  he  wished  his 
sons  to  betray  consideration  and  fondness  for 
their  sisters;  one  of  the  things  that,  Caroline 
was  sure,  alienated  Roden  from  his  affections, 
was  the  young  man's  self-centredness  and  un- 
sociability.  If,  as  often  occurred,  Stella  and 
Sir  Harold  planned  a  diversion  in  holiday- 
time,  Francis  was  almost  always  included. 

Evelyn  Cashel  was  rarely  a  party  to  these 
festivities;  Stella  reserved  him  for  the  more 
frequent  occasions  when  her  father  was  other- 
wise occupied.  In  Stella's  absence,  Evelyn 
was  usually  to  be  found  in  the  company  of  his 
exacting  Aunt  Leila ;  but  when  the  girl  wanted 
him  he  was  almost  always  at  hand.  Caroline, 
a  disdainful  spectator  of  these  combinations, 
marvelled  at  her  cousin's  skill  in  handling  the 
rather  delicate  situation  of  rivalry  which  ex- 
isted between  the  mother  and  the  younger 
daughter.  In  all  these  manoeuvres  Francis 
was  a  useful  pawn. 

But  during  the  Christmas  vacation,  Caro- 
line had  thought  to  detect  in  the  schoolboy  a 
crescent  unwillingness  to  be  used  by  Evelyn. 
To  please  Stella,  and  thereby  to  please  his 
father,  Francis  would  do  much;  but  he  grew 
restive  when  this  involved  close  or  prolonged 
92 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


intimacy  with  Evelyn.  Caroline  had  seen  him 
sheer  off — had  even  known  him  take  refuge 
with  herself;  but  the  topic  of  his  relations  with 
his  family  was  never  touched  on  between  them. 

Those  holidays,  Francis  was  voluble  and 
jubilant  at  the  prospect  of  going  to  Cambridge 
in  the  autumn.  The  coming  term  was  his  last 
at  school.  Whenever  possible  he  led  the  con- 
versation round  to  the  absorbing  subjects  of 
his  enfranchisement  and  the  university,  trying 
in  vain  to  elicit  from  Roden  reminiscences  of 
the  magic  city  by  leading  questions,  which 
Evelyn,  an  Oxford  man,  answered  with  elabor- 
ate sarcasm. 

"You'll  discover,  my  dear  Francis,  at  Cam- 
bridge, that  it  is  not  only  bad  manners— for 
that  would  positively  recommend  it  there — but 
bad  taste,  and  almost  an  indecency,  to  speak 
unless  you  have  something  worth  saying  to  say. 
And  if  you  want,  without  being  unduly  con- 
spicuous, to  keep  your  head  (not  to  speak  of 
your  tongue)  smooth,  you'll  have  to  consort 
solely  with  Kingsmen.  King's  is  Cambridge's 
attempt— a  superb,  admirable  and  very-nearly- 
successful  attempt — at  civilisation.  The  other 
colleges  are— woad,  as  Stella  would  say." 

At  the  moment  of  this  speech  the  Peels  were 
93 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


waiting  to  go  down  to  Sunday  supper;  waiting 
for  Sir  Harold,  Roden  and  Hugh  Sexton,  It 
was  customary  for  friends  of  the  children  to 
be  invited  to  this  meal;  contemporaries  of  the 
parents  were  tacitly  excluded.  Evelyn  Cashel 
came  regularly;  indeed,  so  often  in  the  week 
was  he  to  be  found  eating  at  his  aunt's  table 
that  one  might  have  imagined  him  to  be  living 
in  the  house.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  rooms 
near  by  in  Kensington,  and  his  office  hours 
were  only  from  ten  to  five,  with  an  undefined 
lunch-interval. 

In  spite  of  the  absentees,  Lady  Peel  rose 
when  the  gong  sounded;  but  Caroline  said: 
"Let's  wait  for  Hugh,  Mamma." 

"Oh  no,  let's  go  down,"  cried  Stella. 
"Evelyn  and  I  are  famishing." 

In  compliance  with  this  imperious  demand 
Lady  Peel  drifted  to  the  door,  and  Caroline 
followed  without  rancour.  For  some  reason 
to-night  her  thoughts  were  out  in  the  country, 
where  the  hay-deep  fields  were  shadowy  be- 
tween the  hedges  of  white  may.  Soon  the 
moonlight  would  transform  the  countryside  in- 
to a  marvel.  She  wandered  down  imaginary 
or  half-remembered  lanes,  and  heard  the  night- 
ingales. Imagination  had  indeed  more  to  do 
94 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


with  such  waking  dreams  than  memory,  for 
her  contact  with  the  country  had  been,  all  her 
life,  but  fragmentary  and  incomplete.  Her 
childhood's  holidays  had  been  spent  with  gov- 
ernesses by  the  sea — not  the  blue  and  green 
sea  where  the  corn  and  the  woods  and  the  flow- 
ers grow  down  to  the  cliff's  edge,  and  rich  low 
hills  and  heathery  moors  rise  close  behind,  but 
the  grey  eastern  sea  of  hard  shingle  beaches, 
barren  salt  marshes,  dreary  fields,  breakwaters 
and  monotonous  horizons.  True,  since  ma- 
turity she  had  been  released  from  this  recur- 
rent summer-bondage.  For  ten'  years  now 
Lady  Peel  had  kept  her  children  with  her  for 
the  holidays.  As  has  been  said,  Lady  Peel  de- 
tested the  seaside.  A  country  house  was  hired 
for  three  summer  months,  usually  in  the  north, 
for  Sir  Harold  came  from  Yorkshire  and  had 
a  sentiment  about  that  country.  It  was  indeed 
a  land  of  great  beauty;  but  it  was  of  the  south 
that  Caroline  dreamed;  it  was  about  the  south 
and  west  country  that  she  liked  to  wander  in 
fancy.  Staying  with  Ann  Davies,  with  the 
Veseys,  with  one  or  two  other  London  friends, 
she  had  yearly  caught  glimpses  of  its  intimate 
and  tender  loveliness,  had  snatched  a  few  of 
its  moods  and  contours,  sounds  and  odours; 
95 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


and  these  fragments,  woven  on  the  web  of  her 
conception  of  the  south  country's  nature — a 
conception  strengthened  by  literature — had 
gradually  come  to  form  a  refuge  from  the  tedi- 
ousness  of  daily  life.  It  was  curious  that,  in 
all  this  time,  she  had  never  taken  the  course  so 
simply  open  to  her — had  never  gone  away 
alone,  or  with  a  friend,  to  a  remote  spot  and 
stayed  there,  steeped  in  the  atmosphere  she 
loved  to  conjure  with.  This  course,  so  obvious 
and  natural  to  persons  of  a  less  conventional 
upbringing,  of  a  less  worldly  and  wealthy  class, 
had  never  in  truth  occurred  to  her.  Her  inde- 
pendence of  mind  had  so  far  been  directed  to 
purely  emotional  and  spiritual  problems ;  it  did 
not  spread  out  over  the  whole  field  of  her  life ; 
she  remained  in  many  respects  what  she  was 
born  and  reared  to  be — a  cultivated,  conven- 
tional, hidebound  London  woman  of  the  upper 
middle-classes,  as  much  removed  from  the 
"fast,"  pseudo-intellectual,  wildly  gay  section 
of  the  aristocracy  as  from  the  " loose"  artis- 
tic and  literary  sets  of  Chelsea,  Hampstead 
and  Bloomsbury.  Caroline  had  always  taken, 
physically  and  in  exterior  daily  life,  the  line  of 
least  resistance ;  her  unorthodoxy  was  contained 
96 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


in  the  secret,  spiritual    sphere;    it    was    un- 
suspected by  her  family. 

They  sat  down  to  table,  Caroline  as  usual  at 
the  right  of  Sir  Harold's  place,  Lady  Peel  with 
a  blank  seat  on  either  side  of  her,  waiting  for 
Hugh  and  Roden.  She  began  to  complain  of 
the  latter 's  perversity  in  being  unpunctual. 

"Isn't  Hugh's  unpunctuality  perverse, 
too!"  Caroline  inquired  mildly;  but  all  the 
time  there  was  moving  in  her  head,  and  bet- 
ween her  spoken  words  slipping  on  her  tongue 
a  poem  about  Shropshire : 

"Far  in  a  Western  brookland 
That  bred  me  long  ago, 
The  poplars  stand  and  tremble 

By  pools  I  used  to  know. 

*  *         *         * 

There,  by  the  starlit  fences, 
The  wanderer  halts  and  hears 
My  soul  that  lingers  sighing 
About  the  glimmering  weirs." 
She  did  not  hear  her  mother's  reply,  which 
was  anyway  interrupted  by  the  brisk  opening 
of  the  door,  and  the  appearance  of  a  knot  of 
persons,  which  sorted  itself  out  into  Sir  Har- 
old, Roden,  Hugh  Sexton,  and  Grace  Draper. 
Caroline  rose  quickly  and  went  towards  the 
97 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


stranger.  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  Mother 
this  is  Miss  Draper,  a  friend  of  mine  and 
Roden 's.  .  .  .  Has  Roden  introduced  my 
father  to  you?  He  never  remembers  about  in- 
troductions! Father,  let's  put  Miss  Draper 
between  us." 

While  she  piloted  the  girl  to  her  place,  Caro- 
line was  aware  that  the  momentary  confusion 
of  the  room  had  subsided,  and  turning,  she  saw 
Hugh  making  a  friendly  signal  to  her  diagon- 
ally across  the  long  table,  and  she  returned  the 
unsmiling  look  which  is  for  intimate  friends 
only.  She  had  been  drawn  forcibly  from  her 
rural  wanderings  back  into  urban  actuality; 
she  had  the  sensation,  in  that  exchange  of 
glances  with  Hugh,  that  she  closed  a  door  on  a 
secret  way  of  escape,  and  that  he  perceived 
and  knew  the  purport  of  the  gesture. 

She  glanced  at  Roden,  who  appeared  obliv- 
ious of  everyone  and  everything,  and  especial- 
ly of  his  responsibility  for  introducing  a 
strange  young  woman  into  the  bosom  of  his 
family.  Caroline  felt-  momentarily  angry; 
Roden  had  such  a  blind,  wholesale  way  of 
ignoring  what  it  did  not  suit  him  to  recognise ; 
he  had  the  self-protective  instinct  that  is  com- 
mon to  the  creative  artist  and  the  egotist.  Her 
98 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


anger  passed  quickly,  however,  for  she  knew 
that  he  was,  essentially,  no  shirker,  he  did  not, 
over  things  that  mattered,  imitate  the  ostrich. 

By  this  time  Miss  Draper  had  punctiliously 
shaken  hands  all  round  the  table,  and  returned 
to  the  seat  by  Caroline,  who  inquired  whether 
they  had  all  met  on  the  doorstep. 

"Yes,  wasn't  it  funny,  Miss  Peel?  I  hope  I 
haven't  put  you  out  by  coming  unexpected  like 
this?" 

"Of  course  not,  we  like  it." 

"We  were  very  late,  I'm  afraid." 

"Somebody  always  is;  it  doesn't  matter  at 
all." 

"We  went  to  Kew,"  said  her  brother 
abruptly. 

"Oh,  Miss  Peel,  it  was  lovely!  The  bluebells 
are  a  perfect  picture.  And  the  cherry-blossom 
— you  never  saw  anything  like  it  I" 

Caroline,  pleased  with  this  genuine  enthu- 
siasm, answered:  "It's  a  lovely  place.  And  yet 
I  never  go  there — I'm  an  idiot.  Did  you  see 
any  poplars?"  she  added,  the  tune  of  the 
poem  still  running  in  her  head. 

"N— o;  I  don't  think  so.  ...  You  should 
go  there,  Miss  Peel,  indeed  you  should." 

"Yes.    Why  is  one  so  lazy?" 
99 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"One  is  rather  a  stay-at-home,  isn't  one?" 
Miss  Draper  agreed,  with  one  of  her  sudden 
accesses  of  primness. 

" Caroline  is  a  stay-at-home,"  said  Sir  Har- 
old, bending  towards  the  guest  with  a  dignity 
which  justified  his  supposed  likeness  to  a  Du 
Maurier  aristocrat. 

"Is  she?  Oh,  but  I'm  sure  Miss  Peel's  been 
to  ever  so  many  places,"  Grace  exclaimed,  a 
little  flustered  by  his  gallant,  serious  air,  send- 
ing a  bright  glance  sidelong  at  the  girl. 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  Cambridge,  Miss 
Draper?"  Evelyn  inquired  with  intention. 
There  was  a  ripple  of  laughter  round  the  table, 
while  Grace,  visibly  discomforted,  answered 
that  she  had  not. 

"We  weren't  laughing  at  you,  though  we  are 
so  rude,"  said  Caroline.  "My  brother— not 
Roden— is  going  to  College  this  autumn;  and 
we  always  rot  him  about  Cambridge." 

"Poor  France!"  sighed  Lady  Peel.  "How 
they  tease  you." 

"Don't  pity  me,  Mother;  pity  Evelyn.  I'm 
going  to  disinter  (good  word,  what?)  a  secret 
from  his  murky  past,  and  dangle  it  above  his 
head." 

100 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"You'd  better  look  out,  Cashel,"  said  Hugh; 
' '  come  to  me  in  case  of  blackmail. ' ' 

''You  shall  be  my  counsel,"  the  exquisite 
young  man  returned  imperturbably,  "if  it 
comes  to  litigation." 

"  'Tears  of  gratitude  flowed  down  the  face 
of  the  briefless  barrister,*  "  Hugh  exclaimed 
with  mock  emotion. 

" Aren't  they  silly?"  cried  Stella,  address- 
ing Miss  Draper  for  the  first  time. 

' 'Young  men  always  must  have  jokes,  musn't 
they?"  the  guest  replied  genteelly.  This  uni- 
versal truth  silenced  all  but  Sir  Harold  who, 
leaning  his  great,  bearded  head  once  more  her 
way  with  respectful  gaiety,  remarked : 

"And  so  must  young  ladies." 

"But  men  and  girls  are  so  different,  aren't 
they?"  Grace  pursued,  encouraged. 

There  was  a  prolonged  pause.  Miss  Draper's 
contemporaries  were  too  kind  to  utter  the  flip- 
pant rejoinders  which  leapt  to  their  lips;  the 
speaker's  face  was  so  serious,  though  lit  with 
conversational  attention. 

Her  host,  however,  was  quite  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  with  smiling,  solid  gravity, 
"that  you  are  a  very  observant  young  lady." 
101 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 

11 'But  she  didn't  notice  the  poplars,"  Caro- 
line remarked  to  herself,  crossly.  * '  How  could 
one  go  among  trees  and  look  for  those 
green  towers,  so  stable  and  yet  so  living,  so 
mutable,  their  foliage  so  rich,  and  yet  so  deli- 
cate in  shape  and  music?  'The  poplars  stand 
and  tremble — '  they  are  scarce  in  Derbyshire.  I 
must  go  to  Shropshire  one  day." 

"Well,  it's  not  surprising,"  Stella  was  say- 
ing, rather  peevishly,  "considering  that  I've 
been  up  late  every  night  this  week,  three  of 
them  dancing." 

"Oh,  Stella,  darling,  you  must  have  learnt 
some  new  steps,  surely!"  her  mother  cried  ex- 
citedly, knocking  her  bread  off  the  table  with 
an  awkward  movement  of  her  arm.  "You  must 
show  me  afterwards.  They  say  there's  a  new 
hen-scratch,  and  a  new  heel-waggle,  and  a  new 
tango-walk." 

"Leila,  you've  gone  back  into  the  twenties," 
said  Sir  Harold. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  dance!  I'm  light,  aren't 
I,  Evelyn?" 

"Aunt  Leila,  you  are  light." 

"You  say  it  as  though  it  were  an  improper 
joke,  you  absurd  boy.   Francis,  I  can  dance  as 
well  as  the  flappers,  can't  I?" 
102 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


1  'Well,  Mother  .    .    .  yes." 

"But  you  prefer  dancing  with  flappers?" 
Evelyn  suggested.  "Oh,  Francis,  you  must 
put  these  childish  things  away  now " 

"Stop  giving  Francis  bad  advice,  and  pass 
on  the  claret,"  said  Stella. 

"Roden,  why  don't  you  dance?"  Lady  Peel 
lamented.  "It's  so  unnecessary,  so  perverse, 
to  be  young  and  not  to  like  dancing.  Stella, 
couldn't  you  teach  him?" 

"I?"  said  Stella  sulkily.  "Me  teach  Roden 
to  dance?  My  dear  mother,  I  can't  teach  Rod- 
en  anything — I  don't  want  to.  I've  quite 
enough  to  do.  If  you  could  see  my  engage- 
ment-book! It's  crammed."  She  cocked  her 
head,  monkey-like,  though  so  pale  and  fair,  and 
sipped  her  wine.  On  her  face  an  elusive,  mixed 
expression  of  invitation  and  uneasy  vanity 
wavered.  Her  glance  rested  finally  on  her  eld- 
er brother ;  Caroline  saw  the  expression  change 
and  crystallise,  there  was  no  vanity  in  it  now; 
the  invitation,  the  restlessness,  seemed  almost 
a  hunger,  almost  a  demand.  It  blotted  out  the 
dreams,  the  rhythms  from  Caroline's  mind; 
she  watched  her  sister  all  the  evening. 

As  the  girls  and  Francis  trooped  up  to  bed, 
the  latter  had  a  mild  tussle  with  Stella  over 
103 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


which  there  was  some  spontaneous  laughter. 
But  when  the  boy  had  disappeared  into  his 
room,  the  girl,  lingering  on  her  threshold,  quot- 
ed with  a  return  of  bad  temper : 

"  ' Young  men  must  have  their  jokes.'  ' 

Caroline,  little  knowing  how  like  her  own 
voice  of  scorn  was  Stella's,  stood  in  silence, 
puzzled,  waiting,  but  betraying  nothing  by  her 
expression.  Stella  went  quickly  on: 

"If  Miss  Draper's  a  pal  of  yours,  Cabs, 
you'd  better  tell  her  Hal's  name  before  she 
comes  again.  What  a  lot  of  times  she  might 
have  said,  'Oh,  Sir  Harold,'  'Yes,  Sir  Harold,' 
'One  docs,  doesn't  one,  Sir  Harold'." 

"Don't  be  snobbish,  Stell." 

"I'm  only  saying  what  everybody  was  think- 
ing. Where  did  he  pick  her  up?" 

Caroline  turned  towards  her  room.  "You'd 
better  ask  him,"  she  answered. 

"Is  she  a  tobacconist's  young  lady?  .  .  . 
Well,  Roden  may  be  a  bear  with  a  sore  head, 
but  he  needn't  have  picked  up  that!" 

As  Caroline  opened  her  door,  expecting  then 
to  close  the  episode,  Stella  came  forward  and, 
to  her  surprise,  followed  her  in. 

"You're  very  serious  about  it,"  the  elder 
girl  remarked,  in  her  clear,  neutral  voice.  "You 
104 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


haven't  fretted  much  about  Roden  up  till  now." 

"One  doesn't  fret  till  things  begin  to  hum. 
It  must  be  fairly  serious  if  he  brings  her  to 
supper.  Such  prunes  and  prisms!  And  Rod- 
en  is  such  woad." 

There  was  a  pause  while  Caroline  took  off 
her  dress.  Her  tones  muffled  as  she  hung  it  in 
the  cupboard,  she  asked:  "Do  you  mind  so 
much  what  friends  Roden  has?" 

"Of  course  I  mind.  I'm  not  quite  without 
feelings. ' ' 

Caroline  hesitated;  but  then;  "Why  be 
timid  ? ' '  she  asked  herself,  and  remarked  aloud, 
evenly,  coolly:  "Well,  I  thought  you  scarcely 
tolerated  him,  you  and  mother." 

"Mother?" 

That,  then  had  been  a  false  step.  Stella  would 
shelter  behind  that.  Yes,  for  she  went  on:  "I 
don't  know  what  mother  thinks  for  two  min- 
utes running — nobody  does."  The  girl  rose 
from  her  chair  and  seemed  to  swallow.  Caro- 
line, facing  the  mirror,  heard  the  inarticulate 
sound,  and  turned,  to  receive  a  passionate  ex- 
clamation; "I  can't— I  can't  tolerate  him  tak- 
ing up  with  that  common  little  creature!"  and 
to  see  Stella's  small,  plastic  face  moulded  by  a 
totally  uncontrolled  emotion  into  a  mask  of 
primitive  resentment. 

105 


PART  TWO 


vm. 

IN  the  garden  of  a  house  perched  on  an  exceed- 
ingly steep  hillside  in  Derbyshire  the  Peels 
were  holding  a  conclave.  They  were  at  tea; 
and  while  eating  and  talking,  their  eyes,  pass- 
ing lightly  from  each  other's  faces,  rested  on 
the  wide  view,  drenched  in  sunlight;  the  view 
of  a  large,  long  valley,  holding  one  visible  and 
more  hidden  villages,  and  a  river;  and  of  fur- 
ther hills,  bastioned  by  ramparts  of  limestone, 
and  topped  by  moors  on  which  the  heather  was 
just  in  bloom.  Stella  and  Francis,  in  tacit  com- 
petition, and  seated  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
terraced  garden,  continually  threw  pebbles  out 
into  the  still  air;  for  pebbles,  accurately  di- 
rected from  this  shelf,  fell  on  to  the  roofs  of 
houses  below. 

Every  one  except  Roden  was  present,  in- 
cluding Evelyn  Cashel,  whom  Sir  Harold,  after 
a  night  in  town,  had  brought  back  with  him  for 
the  week-end.  Apparently  exhausted  by  the 
journey,  the  young  man  lay  in  graceful  lan- 
guor, and  with  no  detail  of  his  person  disordered, 
109 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


in  a  deck  chair,  sipping  from  a  delicately  tilted 
cup,  and  eyeing  the  family  with  a  little  less 
than  his  usual  attention.  He  was  beginning  to 
find  the  subdued  jangling  of  the  Peel  discords 
a  little  tiring,  almost  a  little  vulgar.  A  serene 
presence,  lately  come  into  his  life,  was  modify- 
ing his  standards ;  and  the  lack  of  repose  which 
he  had  previously  tolerated  amusedly,  and  not 
quite  disinterestedly,  and  had  affected  to  watch 
as  a  characteristically  modern  symptom,  seemed 
now  not  only  jarring  in  itself,  but  also  old- 
fashioned  when  regarded  as  a  spectacle;  it  re- 
called war-work  and  uniformed  women  and  the 
hectic  days  of  leave  from  France.  Sir  Harold, 
of  course,  and  Caroline,  were  exempt  from  his 
disapproval;  they  had  always  been  eminently 
serene.  Caroline,  indeed,  was  akin  in  type  to 
his  new  friend;  only  there  was  something 
sharp  in  her  flavour;  he  preferred  the  other's 
mellower,  sunnier  atmosphere.  He  had  had 
enough  sharpness,  restlessness,  oddness  from 
the  combined  feminine  section  of  the  Peels  to 
last  him  a  lifetime.  He  watched  his  aunt's 
parasol  dip  dangerously  towards  Sir  Harold's 
head  as  the  holder  poured  out  tea  with  her  free 
hand. 

"It  really  is  too  much,"  she  repeated  for  the 
110 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


third  time,  setting  down  the  milk  jug  with  a 
crash.  "Roden's  really  too  crude  for  words!" 
''Young men  frequently  are  crude,  Leila, "her 
husband  pointed  out  with  his  usual  air  of  judi- 
ciousness. It  happened  that  three  of  his  listen- 
ers scanned  his  face  at  this  remark — Francitt 
swiftly,  before  he  hurled  a  pebble;  Evelyn 
casually,  as  he  lit  a  cigarette;  Caroline  stead- 
ily, as  she  formulated  silently  an  impression 
received  an  hour  ago  when  her  father  and  her 
cousin  arrived  from  the  station.  He  looked, 
Sir  Harold,  different ;  he  looked,  more  precise- 
ly, fatigued  and  worried.  Was  it  a  new  look, 
or  was  it  that  she  had  noticed  it  for  the  first 
time?  Was  it  the  beginning  of  old  age?  Was 
it  not  a  fact  that  she  had  thought  of  him  as  un- 
alterable, immortal,  immovable,  not  subject  to 
worry  or  fatigue  or  even  emotion — as  a  monu- 
ment rather  than  a  man?  He  was  so  Olympian, 
so  dignified,  so  unshakable  and  reasonable  and 
solid;  he  so  much  suggested  durability,  mod- 
eration, worth,  safety  and  success,  that  it  was 
not  difficult — it  was  in  fact  quite  easy — for 
one  of  the  younger  generation  to  look  on  him 
as  a  symbol,  a  type,  an  institution.  And  here 
was  the  institution  getting  pronouncedly 
weatherbeaten,  wrinkled  round  the  eyes  and 
111 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 

grizzled  on  the  temples  and  in  the  beard !  Caro- 
line experienced  a  sudden  unprecedented'  in- 
terest in  her  father's  inner  life.  What  did  he 
"think  deeply"  about  existence,  if  he  thought 
about  it  at  all? 

"In  the  early  twenties — well  and  good," 
Lady  Peel  was  saying.  "Although  some  of 
them  are  never  crude — look  at  Evelyn.  You 
must  be  fagged  out  after  that  odious  journey, 
you  poor  boy.  I  wanted  Hal  to  have  the  car  to 
meet  you  at  Sheffield,  but  he  seems  to  like  that 
disgusting  tunnel.  .  .  .  What  was  I  saying? 
Oh,  yes — crude  at  twenty;  but  need  they  be  at 
twenty-seven?  Of  course  not!  Roden's  be- 
having like  a  young  man  in  a  book." 

"Ah,  but  what  book?"  Evenly  inquired.  "It 
would  be  delightful  to  behave  like  a  Henry 
James  young  man." 

"Not  that  kind,  you  may  be  sure.  You  re- 
member that  dreadful  supper? — and  that 
young  woman  called  Caper  or  Taper?  It's  too 
absurd — Roden  wants  us  to  have  her  here  for 
a  week  in  September  when  he  comes  for  his 
holiday. ' '  As  she  spoke  Lady  Peel  flicked  at  a 
wasp  with  her  handkerchief,  shut  her  parasol, 
dropped  it,  and  leant  down  to  fumble  with  a 
footstool. 

112 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"The  children  always  do  have  their  friends 
here,"  Sir  Harold  remarked. 

"Yes,  what  about  dear  Geoffrey?"  cried 
Francis,  making  a  face  at  Stella,  who  looked 
angrily  back,  at  a  loss  for  a  retort.  "And  dear 
Ann  Davies  and  Hugh  Sexton  and  Babs 
Vesey?"  he  added,  glancing  at  his  father  as 
though  to  ask,  or  perhaps  to  render,  support. 

"That's  not  the  point,  my  dear  child,"  his 
mother  answered;  "the  point  is  this — and  it's 
no  use  evading  it,  for  it  may  be  now  or  never ; 
it  usually  is  with  people  like  Roden  who  have 
the  artistic  temperament" — she  paused  to  re- 
gain her  central  thread,  while  Caroline  mur- 
mured, "And  are  perverse  and  crude." 

"The  point  is,  Aunt  Leila "  Evelyn  sug- 
gested. 

"That  it's  high  time  we  drew  the  line  at  this 
Caper-Taper-Paper  affair.  She's  not  like  the 
other  children's  friends,  and  it's  no  use  shirk- 
ing the  fact;  she's  simply  a  little  typewriter 
Roden  picked  up,  heaven  only  knows  why,  in 
the  park.  He  said  so — he  admitted  it!  Well, 
where  is  it  to  end,  if  we  positively  encourage  it 
by  asking  her  here?  Isn't  that  giving  our 
blessing?" 

"Does  he  want  a  blessing?"  said  Caroline. 
113 


THE    SINGING    CAPTIVES 


"I  mean,  doesn't  he  simply  want  ordinary  re- 
cognition of  ordinary  facts?" 

4 'Cabs  thinks  blessings  old-fashioned,  and 
so  they  are,"  Stella  put  in. 

Having  paused  in  vain  for  Sir  Harold  to 
speak  (an  unconscious  tribute  of  respect), 
Evelyn  began:  " Isn't  the  essential  point  this: 
whether,  by  asking  the  Draper  girl  here  you 
precipitate  or  prevent  the  fruition  of  Roden's 
honourable  intentions?  Always  supposing, " 
he  added  drawing  in  smoke  and  smiling  sub- 
tly at  his  auditors  as  it  crept  from  his  lips, 
''that  his  intentions  are  as  perverse  and  crude 
as  to  be  honourable." 

Stella  laughed — not  her  usual  care-free, 
high,  almost  hoot-like  chuckle,  but  an  abrupt, 
brief,  unresonant  laugh  of  two  notes.  It  had  a 
theatrical,  an  artificial  sound,  and  yet  it  had 
come  quickly,  spontaneously  on  top  of  Evelyn's 
words. 

Caroline  looked  at  her  sister;  but  not  at  once 
— an  inexplicable  modesty  had  prevented  a 
quick  turn  of  her  head,  as  though  she  feared  to 
learn  too  much  from  Stella's  attitude  or  ex- 
pression. The  girl  was  now  composed  enough, 
arranging  rose-petals  in  patterns  on  the  gravel 
path.  "Have  I  theatricality  on  the  brain?" 
114 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Caroline  wondered.  As  though  to  test  an  eye 
suspected  of  jaundice  she  turned  hers  deliber- 
ately away  from  the  group  and  sat  confront- 
ing the  landscape;  a  view  all  distant,  owing  to 
the  position  of  the  house,  and  with  no  fore- 
ground; but  all  brilliant  and  with  colours  in- 
tensified by  the  lens  of  the  strong  air.  Did 
this  beauty  convict  her  of  distorted  senses? 
Had  constant,  close  companionship  with  arti- 
ficiality, and  too  conscious  a  revolt  against  it, 
given  her  mind  a  twist,  so  that  she  perceived 
insincerity,  sham,  affection,  where  none  was? 
And  her  revolt — was  that  also  proved  fictitious 
by  the  equanimity  with  which  she  sat  here, 
listening  to  her  mother's  silly  chatter,  to  Eve- 
lyn's elegant  mock-pomposity,  to  Stella's 
meaningless  laughter,  when  the  discussion  con- 
cerned the  future  of  Roden,  for  whom  she 
cared?  The  coldness,  the  superficiality  of 
their  tone  did  indeed  revolt  her;  but  how  was 
she  to  combat  it?  What  could  she  say  that  they 
would  understand?  .  .  .  And  yet,  wasn't  she 
too  lacking  in  a  sense  of  proportion?  Weren't 
they  all  in  hue  and  cry  after  a  snail?  Was  she 
not  implicated  in  her  family's  triviality  be- 
cause she  had  not  protested  even  inwardly 
against  their  regarding  Roden's  proposal  as 
115 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


an  enormity?  Of  course  it  was  no  enormity, 
his  straightforward  request;  it  was  not  a 
mountain;  but  was  it  a  molehill?  Could  a  symp- 
tom of  true  love  be  a  molehill? 

The  trouble  was  she  thought  after  a  mo- 
ment, that  her  family  had  only  one  method  of 
dealing  with  molehills  and  mountains ;  only  one 
pitch,  only  one  focus,  which  belittled  the  seri- 
ous and  swelled  the  unimportant  with  equal 
inevitability.  They  lived,  morally,  all  on  one 
plane ;  they  had  no  spiritual  fourth  dimension. 
Of  course,  they  were  canaries !  Well,  one  had 
to  meet  canaries  on  their  own  ground.  Her 
distaste  for  the  whole  discussion  sounded  in 
her  voice  as  she  said: 

"Mayn't  you  be  miscalculating  rather?  I 
mean,  mayn't  Roden  be  asking  your  blessing 
on  something  already  settled?  It  may  be  too 
late  for  all  this  talk." 

Lady  Peel  was  silenced  only  for  a  moment. 
"Well,  that's  far,  far  worse,  isn't  it?  You 
talk  glibly  enough,  my  darling  Cabs,  but  do 
you  realise  what  you're  saying?  By  the  way, 
hasn't  he  taken  you  into  his  confidence?" 

"If  he  had  I  wouldn't  be  discussing  it,"  her 
daughter  sharply  yet  calmly  retorted. 

"You  know  that  girl  better  than  any  of  the 
116 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


rest  of  us  do,  anyway, "  said  Stella;  and  this 
gave  Caroline  her  cue. 

"Which  is  exactly  what  Roden's  trying  to 
remedy, "  she  answered. 

"Whether  or  not  anything  .  .  .  irrevoc- 
able has  taken  place?"  Evelyn  suggested. 

"Yes.  .  .  That  seems  reasonable,"  said 
Caroline.  "He  wants  us  to  know  her  properly." 

"But  how  are  we  to  know,"  Stella  cried,  al- 
most with  anger,  "how  far  it's  gone!" 

"You're  evading  the  real  question,  Cabs," 
Lady  Peel  began  again,  "which  is:  Why,  why, 
why  in  heaven's  name  that  perverse  boy  should 
have  taken  up  with  a  shorthand- typist?"  She 
pronounced  the  penultimate  syllable  in  a  tone 
suggesting  that  the  variety  of  typist  in  ques- 
tion surpassed  other  varieties  in  virulence. 

Caroline  summoned  her  vocabulary,  for  now 
was  the  moment.  "Thank  goodness,"  she 
thought,  "I've  inherited  mother's  fluency; 
otherwise  I'd  be  nowhere."  Fortunately  no 
one  seemed  disposed  to  answer  Lady  Peel's 
rhetorical  question  save  her  elder  daughter. 
"Is  that  what  matters?"  the  latter  brought 
out  so  as  to  gain  time ;  and  then,  in  a  rush,  yet 
lucidly  and  calmly:  "It  seems  to  me  quite  su- 
perfluous to  wonder  about  whys  and  hows.  As 
117 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


he  has  taken  up  with  her,  and  as  you've  noth- 
ing against  her — nothing  morally,  I  mean," 
she  hastily  amended  in  response  to  an  outraged 
yelp  from  her  mother,  " surely  what  you've  got 
to  decide  is  whether  it  wouldn't  be  better  all 
round,  for  everybody  concerned,  to  make  the 
best  of  it  and  have  her  here." 

"Caroline,  you're  an  opportunist."  said 
Evelyn.  "You  ask,  not  what  is  right,  but  what 
is  politic  and  expedient.  Unfortunately,  it's 
very  hard  to  know,  being  in  the  dark,  whether 
your  actions  will  affect  the  issue,  or  whether 
it's  all  gone  too  far." 

"It  can't  have  gone  too  far  unless  they're 
actually  secretly  married,"  said  Stella. 

Lady  Peel  rolled  her  luminous  dark  eyes 
helplessly,  and  stirred  her  tea  with  violence. 
Then  she  seemed  to  be  struck  by  a  thought. 

"We  seem  to  be  going  round  in  a  circle," 
Sir  Harold  remarked  with  some  weariness,  ris- 
ing and  moving  a  few  paces  away  from  the 
group.  He  stood  looking  towards  the  Hope 
Valley,  and  Caroline's  eyes  followed  his. 

Lady  Peel  whose  silence  had  been  omin- 
ous, enquired  softly:  "Why  do  you  say  'you,' 
Cabs?  Why  not  'we'?  Hasn't  he  confided  in 
you?" 

118 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Caroline  turned  towards  the  speaker  a  face 
lit  with  recognition  of  her  misplaced  clever- 
ness. "No,  honestly,  he  hasn't,"  she  answered. 
She  pursued  after  a  pause:  "I  think  Evelyn 
was  .  .  .  right  when  he  talked  of  precipitat- 
ing events.  Don't  you  think,  if  you  refuse  to 
ask  Miss  Draper  here,  Roden  may  go  elsewhere 
for  his  holiday?" 

< '  With  her  ?  "    asked  Stella. 

Sir  Harold  came  back  to  them  at  that.  "Do 
you  think  he  has  an  alternative  plan  in  his 
mind?"  he  enquired  of  his  elder  daughter  as 
though  controlling  himself  so  as  not  to  alarm 
her. 

"I  haven't  an  idea,  Hal.  Do  believe  me 
when  I  say  I  know  no  more  than  you.  But  I 
care  about  Roden— I  don't  want  you  to  have  a 
row  with  him."  She  stopped;  and  then,  in 
reply  to  a  speechless  question  in  her  father's 
face,  added:  "She's  a  perfectly  straight  girl; 
you  must  have  seen  that!"  They  confronted 
each  other  silently  for  an  instant. 

Stella  created  a  diversion  by  jumping  up 
and  exclaiming:  "Well,  I'm  sick  of  this.  Does 
anyone  object  to  having  the  gramophone  on?" 
She  stopped,  and  then  added  with  a  great  air 
of  worldly  wisdom:  "I  don't  see  why  you 
119 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


don't  just  say  there's  no  room  for  her, 
mother." 

To  everyone's  astonishment,  before  Lady 
Peel  could  bring  out  a  word,  Sir  Harold  had 
uttered  an  unmistakably  decided  "No!" 

Stella,  halfway  through  the  French  window 
of  the  drawing  room,  stopped  to  stare  at  her 
father,  who  stood  in  profile  to  her,  his  eyes 
still  fixed  on  the  view.  "Hal!"  she  said,  and 
then,  her  tone  rising  to  irritation,  and  from 
irritation  to  an  anger  which  was  tinged,  it 
seemed  to  Caroline,  with  hysteria;  "You  don't 
icant  that  girl  to  come  here,  do  you?  You 
don't  want  Roden  to  be  in  love  with  her?  Think 
if  he  marries  her.  .  .  Oh,  Hal,  think!  ..." 
she  broke  off,  stammering;  and  then,  with  a 
rush  of  tears  to  her  eyes  and  colour  to  her 
cheeks,  she  turned  precipitately  into  the  room 
and  disappeared. 

Evelyn,  his  eyebrows  a  trifle  raised,  rose 
languidly,  and  strolled  down  the  steep  path 
leading  to  a  lower  terrace. 

"Cabs  and  Francis,,  do  you  mind  taking 
yourselves  off,  too?"  their  father  mildly  en- 
quired. "I  want  to  talk  to  your  mother." 

"Come  up  the  hill,"  the  boy  murmured;  so 
Caroline  went  off  with  him  in  the  opposite 
120 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


direction  to  their  cousin.  As  they  moved  off 
they  heard  the  gramophone  begin  to  sing. 

"I  pity  Hal  having  to  talk  against  Caruso," 
said  the  girl. 

"Well,  he's  used  to  talking  against  mother," 
Francis  replied ;  and  Caroline  thought  his  tone 
a  little  grim.  The  next  moment,  however,  the 
impression  was  wiped  from  her  mind  by  a  flow 
of  remarks  about  county  cricket,  a  subject  sec- 
ond only  in  importance  to  Cambridge  in  her 
brother's  mind.  She  abstracted  herself.  A 
beech-wood  received  them. 


121 


IX. 

THE  gramophone  was  Lady  Peel's  latest  fad. 
She  had  but  recently  discovered,  what  had  al- 
ways been  the  fact,  that  it  was  a  superlatively 
good  machine.  She  had  spent  nearly  a  week 
and  quite  ten  pounds  on  hearing  and  buying 
records  at  Harrod's,  a  pastime  into  which  her 
children  and  friends  were  pressed.  Her  pre- 
vious passion  for  dancing  did  not  suffer  the  us- 
ual swift  eclipse  of  the  superseded  craze:  the 
old  love  and  the  new  flourished  together  in  am- 
ity. The  house  in  Kensington  Gore  resounded 
for  hours  to  dance  tunes,  as  well  as  comic 
songs,  fragments  of  operas,  orchestral  pieces, 
violin  solos  and  drawing-room  ballads. 

The  obstacles  to  transporting  the  unwieldy 
cabinet  to  Derbyshire  were,  fortunately  for 
Lady  Peel,  of  the  kind  that  money  can  over- 
come. A  box  of  brand-new  records  accompan- 
ied it,  as  well  as  a  large  selection  of  old  ones ; 
for  so  many  turned  out  to  be,  when  the  time 
for  packing  came,  favourites  from  whom  some 
member  of  the  family  could  not  bear  to  be 
122 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


parted.  Even  Sir  Harold  and  Caroline  had 
their  favourites,  rather  grudgingly  admitted. 

To-night,  after  dinner,  Stella  moved  towards 
the  gramophone.  Caroline,  without  thought, 
clearly,  authoritatively  said:  "Not  a  rag, 
Stella.  Put  on  0  Moon  of  my  Delight  or 
Bredon." 

Stella,  with  unusual  amiability,  complied; 
and  as  Caroline  settled  down  to  enjoy  the  song, 
she  heard  her  mother  ask  Sir  Harold  if  he 
were  going  by  the  early  train.  She  was  sur- 
prised, for  it  was  unprecedented  for  him  to  go 
to  town  on  a  Saturday.  He  nodded,  and,  when 
the  maid  brought  coffee,  gave  directions  about 
breakfast  and  the  car. 

"Are  you  going  into  Sheffield,  Hal?"  the 
girl  asked,  during  the  final  bars  of  the  music, 
"because  I'd  like  to  go  in  with  you,  and  do 
some  shopping  before  the  shops  shut." 

"Very  well,  dear." 

"That's  a  rotten  thing,"  said  Francis.  "Put 
on  El  Relicario,  and  mater  can  practice  the 
hen-scratch." 

"No,  no,"  Lady  Peel  protested  peevishly. 
"I'm  going  to  have  a  nice  peaceful  evening. 
Let's  have  Tosti's  Good-bye." 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter,  for  the  per- 
123 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


former  in  the  record  referred  to  had  a  pecul- 
iarly strident  tenor. 

"You  do  a  little  work  for  a  change,  Prance," 
said  Stella,  wandering  to  the  window.  "I'm 
going  out.  Is  anyone  coming?" 

There  was  a  pause;  everyone  expected 
Evelyn  to  rise.  Then  Lady  Peel  suggested  a 
hand  of  bridge. 

"Not  for  me,"  Caroline  hastened  to  say,  and 
followed  Stella  out  into  the  garden. 

It  was  not  often  that  the  sisters  walked  alone 
together;  there  was  something  for  the  elder 
strange  and  new  and  pleasing  in  the  experi- 
ence. She  did  not  court  solitude  here  as  she 
would  have  in  the  south.  The  sense  of  space, 
the  sense  of  moors  and  dales,  was  too  present 
to  be  marred  by  this  companionship;  one  could 
walk  for  miles  and  see  nothing  living  but 
grouse  and  perhaps  a  hawk. 

"What's  wrong  with  mother?  She's  off 
dancing,  and,  she  kissed  me  before  dinner." 
Stella  wondered  aloud,  in  a  tone  suggesting 
that  such  an  action  was  symptom  of  a  fell  dis- 
ease. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Evelyn  if  it  comes 
to  that?" 

124 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"Oh,  he'll  perk  up  to-morrow.  I  expect 
town's  horribly  hot." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  father,  thenT 
He's  going  to  town  to-morrow." 

"Is  he?  For  the  week-end?  Did  he  say 
so?" 

"I  didn't  ask  for  how  long;  I  suppose  only 
for  the  day.  I'm  going  into  Sheffield  with 
him." 

Stella  broke  off  humming:  "What's  the  mat- 
ter with  father? — He's  all  right"  to  exclaim 
with  a  gleam  of  mischief:  "What  the  matter 
with  Eoden?  There's  something  wrong  with 
everyone." 

"Except  me." 

"You're  all  right,  are  you,  Cabs?" 

"Quite,  thanks." 

"I  wish  there  weren't  these  dust-ups." 

"I  thought  you  liked  excitements,"  Caroline 
remarked. 

"Do  I?  I  suppose  so.  But  I  know  I  hate, 
I  simply  hate  things  to  go  wrong  like  that." 

"Are  you  talking  about  Roden's  affair?" 

They  were  climbing  the  steep  path  leading 

from  the  garden  to  the  summit  of  the  hill — the 

path  Francis  and  Caroline  had  climbed  earlier 

in  the  evening;  halfway  up  it  entered  a  hang- 

125 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


ing  beechwood.    Stella  did  not  answer. 

"I  don't  know  that  things  are  going  wrong 
from  his  point  of  view,"  said  Caroline. 

"My  good  Cabs!  You  must  be  off  your 
head — and  Hal  too,  by  the  calm  way  he  takes 
it.  ...  He  might  as  well  marry  the  cook." 

"I  don't  believe  you  have  any  idea  what 
Roden's  really  like,  Stella.  He  isn't  like  us — 
like  ordinary  people;  }ie  never  will  be.  It 
would  probably  dish  Francis  to  marry  beneath 
him;  but  it  won't  dish  Roden.  He's — in  a  sort 
of  way,  somehow,  he 's  outside  conventions  and 
civilisation." 

"Outside?  .  .  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I  know  he's  different  and  queer.  Mother  said 
to-day  she  almost  wished  it  was  an  illegitimate 
offspring  of  Roden's  that  had  to  be  dealt  with 
instead  of  what  Evelyn  calls  the  worst  hon- 
ourable intentions." 

"I  dare  say  she  does.  That  could  be  settled 
with  money.  It's  where  money's  no  earthly 
use  that  mother  is  completely  at  sea.  I  have 
been  expecting  her  to  suggest  'buying'  Grace 
Draper  off;  only  Hal's  got  too  much  sense  to 
allow  her  to  try  to  do  anything  so  idiotic." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  it's  such  a  bad  idea." 

"0  Stella,  you're  impossible,  you  and  mo- 
126 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


ther!  Don't  you  know  what  Grace  Draper's 
like  from  having  seen  her?  She  might  very 
likely  be  impressed  if  you  asked  her  to  re- 
nounce Roden  for  the  sake  of  his  family  or  his 
career;  but  if  you  insulted  her,  she'd  merely 
glue  on  all  the  tighter,  and  quite  right  too." 

"Do  you  mean  you  think  she's  in  love  with 
him?" 

"Probably.  Or  she  may  love  him.  There 
are  so  many  different  kinds.  ..." 

"You  think,  anyway,  that  she  minds  about 
him,  about  his  future  and  all  that?" 

"I'm  sure  she  does,  as  far  as  she  visualises 
it.  I'm  certain  she  isn't  a  selfish  little  pig,  nor 
even  on  the  make  at  all;  though  I  daresay  she's 
flattered  at  some  one  in  a  class  above  her  be- 
ing keen  on  her." 

"I  dare  say  so,  too,"  said  Stella  sar- 
donically. 

"And  so  would  you  be,  if  a  duke  happened 
to  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"Oh,  I  expect  so,"  the  younger  girl  admitted. 
"It's  a  sad  life  that  Geoffrey's  only  a  blooming 
honourable." 

"Can't  you  make  shift  with  that?"  Caroline 
asked,  smiling,— but  smiling  at  the  dusky,  sil- 
ent beauty  of  the  wood  where  they  walked  care- 
127 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


fully  and  close  together  on  the  rough  path, 
rather  than  at  the  picture  her  words  suggested. 

"I  imagine  I  could  if  I  could  put  up  with 
Geoffrey's  appearance,  for  he's  not  a  bad  old 
sort  when  you  get  to  know  him.  But  0  Lord, 
he's  so  podgy." 

"It's  annoying  that  all  the  slim  young  men 
who  like  you  are  penniless." 

"I  don't  so  much  mind  about  slimness  if 
they  look  interesting,"  Stella  answered  unex- 
pectedly, "Geoffrey's  just  as  ordinary  as  he 
looks.  .  .  .  But  if  it's  Evelyn  you're  think- 
ing of,  I  don't  want  Evelyn  any  more  than  he 
wants  me." 

They  emerged  on  to  the  plateau  crowning 
the  long  ridge  into  the  diffused,  soft,  miracu- 
lously clear  starlight.  The  heat  of  the  day,  ris- 
ing from  the  bracken,  the  heather,  the  thymy 
sods,  tempered  the  cold  of  the  strong  moorland 
air,  so  that  they  could  stand  in  their  thin,  low 
cut  dresses  without  being  chilled. 

"Who  do  you  think  Roden  would  marry  if 
he  didn't  marry  this  girl?"  Stella  presently 
inquired,  sucking  a  grass.  "I  mean,  what  sort 
of  a  person?" 

Caroline  stared  at  the  starlit  landscape. 
"Perhaps  nobody.  How  can  one  say?  He's 
128 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


awfully  self -controlled,  and  I  don't  think  he'd 
let  a  passion  run  away  with  him  unless  he 
thought  the  woman  was  really  the  sort  of  wife 
he  wanted." 

"D'you  mean  to  tell  me  he  thinks  that  this 
girl  will  suit  him?" 

"Yes.  I  know  it's  queer.  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve he  won't  grow  out  of  her;  and  yet  I  trust 
Roden.  Anyway,  nobody  knows  better  than  he 
does,  and  I  doubt  if  they  know  as  well." 

"Good  Lord,  what  a  notion!  I  thought  it 
must  be  an  infatuation — she  is  rather  pretty." 

"Everybody  calls  love  affairs  they  disap- 
prove of  infatuations,"  Caroline  retorted  sen- 
tentiously. 

After  a  pause  Stella  remarked,  "I  don't 
agree  with  mother  that  it  would  have  been  bet- 
ter if  he'd  just  .  .  .  carried  on  with  her. 
Then  we  should  probably  never  have  known 
about  it." 

"Then  you'd  rather  know  the  worst?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  would.  Should  you  be  shocked 
if  you  knew  that  Roden  had  carried  on  with 
a  girl!" 

"No!" 

Something  in  Caroline's  voice  reminded 
Stella  vividly  of  her  father's  tone  as  he  said 
129 


THE    SINGING    CAPTIVES 


"No!"  to  her  suggestion,  made  at  the  end  of 
the  conclave,  that  Lady  Peel  should  settle  the 
dilemma  with  a  white  lie. 

"Don't  make  me  cry  again,  for  heaven's 
sake,  Cabs,"  she  exclaimed.  "There's  some- 
thing wrong  with  me,  as  well  as  with  the  rest 
of  them." 

"There  is,"  her  sister  gravely  agreed. 
"What  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  suppose  it's  the  heat." 
"There  have  only  been  about  three  warm 
days  since  Whitsun,"  Caroline  replied. 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  know.  I  wish  things  would 
settle  down  again,  and  go  on  as  they  used  to." 
"Things  never  do.   .    .    .  What's  your  ideal 
existence,  Stella?" 

"I've  always  been  quite  happy  since  I've 
been  grown  up — since  the  war  stopped.  I 
don't  want  things  to  alter.  I  like  plenty  to  do 
and  plenty  of  friends." 

"Friends"  was  an  odd  word,  Caroline 
thought,  for  Stella's  series  of  boon  compan- 
ions :  girls  in  whom  she  confided  one  week  and 
verbally  tore  to  shreds  the  next;  young  men 
with  whom  she  danced  and  supped  and  flirted 
until  either  they  or  she  tired  utterly  of  the 
affair  and  behaved  as  though  it  had  never  been. 
130 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"AVe're  none  of  us  much  good  at  friendship,'* 
she  remarked;  "I've  only  got  Ann,  and  Hugh, 
and  Eoden,  out  of  all  the  dozens  of  people  I 
know. ' ' 

"Roden!"  her  sister  echoed.  "You  don't 
surely  count  the  family  as  friends.  One  takes 
them  for  granted." 

"I  don't,"  answered  Caroline. 

They  did  not  speak  as  they  descended  the 
hill.  The  elder  girl,  glancing  at  her  junior's 
face,  saw  that  she  was  plunged  in  thought — a 
very  rare  occurrence. 

When  they  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
the  others  were  still  playing  bridge.  At  the 
end  of  a  rubber  the  usual  argument  broke  out 
— the  inevitable  post-mortem.  Caroline,  light- 
ing a  cigarette,  glanced  sidelong,  with  sup- 
pressed scorn,  at  the  flushed,  irritable  faces  of 
Lady  Peel  and  Francis,  the  half-bored,  half- 
amused  face  of  Evelyn,  the  unmoved,  bearded 
face,  faintly  shadowed  with  weariness,  of  her 
father.  What  a  fuss  about  what  was  supposed 
to  be  a  pleasure!  What  thought  and  concen- 
tration her  mother  bestowed  on  this  game — 
far  more  than  she  expended  even  on  the  more 
exacting  of  her  crazes !  Surely  the  brains  need- 
ed for  auction  bridge  would  carry  Francis 
131 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


through  Little-go.    And  why  did  Evelyn  play 
if  it  bored  him?    Out  of  politeness?     . 
Their  supercilious  glances  met  for  a  moment. 

Turning  from  her  cousin's  oblique  smile,  the 
girl's  eyes  rested  on  her  sister,  who,  with  her 
back  to  the  company,  was  occupied  somehow 
at  Lady  Peel's  writing-table. 

''Come  on,  Stella,"  cried  Francis,  jumping 
up.  "Let's  have  one  ramp  round  before  bed. 
Here,  I'll  put  on  My  House  is  Haunted.  Pull 
up  your  socks,  mater,  I'm  going  to  take  you 
on.  This  is  a  preparation  for  May-week  next 
year."  He  pushed  back  the  chairs,  and,  the 
card-players  having  risen,  began  to  move  the 
table  to  the  wall. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  dance,  Francis,  darling. 
I  don't  mind  watching  you,  though." 

"You  are  an  old  slacker." 

"Now,  Francis,  leave  Aunt  Leila  alone, "* 
said  Evelyn.  "Think  of  the  intellectual  strain 
we've  just  been  through,  not  to  mention  the 
strain  of  controlling  our  tempers."  As  he 
spoke  the  young  man  glanced  covertly  at  his 
uncle;  but  Francis  must  have  perceived  the 
look,  for,  turning  to  Sir  Harold,  he  asked: 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  perform,  Hal?" 

"Not  a  bit,  my  dear  boy.    As  a  matter  of 
132 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


fact,  I'm  going  to  bed.  I  suppose  you'll  have 
breakfast  with  me,  Cabs?" 

His  daughter  nodded.  "Are  you  coming 
back  to-morrow  night?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  But  I  can  come  from  Sheffield  by 
train,  if  you  meant  to  use  the  car  late." 

That  had  not  been  the  reason  for  her  ques- 
tion; and  at  this  proof  of  Sir  Harold's  care 
for  their  pleasure  a  rush  of  affection  filled  her. 
That  stolid,  Saxon,  unemotional  man  was  not 
so  wholly  lacking  in  imagination  as  she  was 
apt  to  consider  him. 

"We  might  go  to  Monsal  Dale  for  tea,"  said 
Stella.  "I  suppose  you  won't  be  back  much 
before  lunch,  will  you,  Cabs?" 

"Not  much."  Her  slow  answer  was  drowned 
by  the  opening  bars  of  the  ragtime. 

Francis  and  Stella  began  to  gyrate.  Soon 
their  mother  jumped  up. 

"I  can't  resist  it,  Evelyn,"  she  cried.  "I 
must  practise  my  tango-walk:  it's  too  delight- 
fully quaint  for  words.  Put  it  just  a  shade 
slower,  will  you,  Caroline  darling.  What  a 
tune!  What  a  floor!  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
a  girl  of  twenty  again." 


133 


X. 


"You  look  as  though  you'd  slept  badly, 
Hal,"  said  Caroline  at  their  early  breakfast. 

He  answered  heavily,  but  without  any  trace 
of  self-pity:  "I  did  rather." 

The  hieroglyphics  of  fatigue  were  indeed 
scrawled  more  plainly  on  his  face  than  yester- 
day; and  his  daughter  had  an  unpleasant,  half- 
suppressed  notion  that  his  mouth  might  be 
trembling  or  grimacing  under  its  moustache. 

"Must  you  go?"  she  presently  enquired. 

"It's  absolutely  necessary,  I'm  sorry  to 
say." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  take  the 
whole  of  next  week  off — you  haven't  had  one 
quite  clear  week  this  summer." 

"Next  week?"  he  echoed  slowly,  looking  at 
her,  and  speaking,  it  seemed  to  her  super-sen- 
sitive early-morning  ears,  with  a  careful  but 
not  successful  counterfeit  of  his  usual  suave 
deliberation:  "I  don't  know  about  next  week." 

This  brief  colloquy  left  the  girl  with  an  un- 
comfortable sensation,  which,  however,  she  at- 
134 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


tributed  to  having  herself  lain  wakeful  for 
several  hours  of  the  night.  She  had  thought  a 
great  deal  about  'Roden  and  Grace  Draper, 
without  coming  to  any  more  decided  conclu- 
sion than  her  previous  one:  that  Roden 's  in- 
stinct was  probably  more  trustworthy  than 
other  people's  opinion  of  what  was  good  for 
him,  and  that  Grace  Draper  was  as  likely  to 
make  him  happy  as  anyone.  She  had  wonder- 
ed, too,  about  Stella,  but  without  arriving  at 
any  theory  which  would  account  for  the  girl's 
recent  outbursts.  Nerves?  This  vague  term 
might  cover  almost  anything,  and  was  there- 
fore all  the  more  unsatisfactory  as  an  explan- 
ation. 

Caroline's  night-thoughts  had  come,  of 
course,  in  time  to  herself,  and  so  to  Hugh  Sex- 
ton. Perhaps  he  was  right:  perhaps  she  had 
hitherto  dismissed  her  relations  too  facilely 
under  the  category  of  puppets,  thus  herself  be- 
traying a  superficiality  equal  to  that  of  which 
she  accused  them.  Hugh  had  seen  further, 
perhaps,  or  made  a  lucky  shot.  And  yet  habit 
of  mind  made  it  hard  to  think  of  Lady  Peel,  of 
Stella,  of  Francis,  of  Sir  Harold,  as  subjects 
worthy  of  study;  it  was  far,  far  more  prob- 
able that  Stella  was  suffering  from  a  disordered 
135 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


liver,  or  from  the  effects  of  too  exciting  a 
season,  than  from  anything  more  interesting. 
She  had  betrayed  no  yearnings,  no  aspirations, 
not  the  slightest  sickness  of  soul,  when  asked 
what  sort  of  life  she  coveted;  indeed,  her  ans- 
wer implied  contentment.  And  could  Lady 
Peel's  successive  passions  for  knitting  sweat- 
ers, the  drama,  infant  welfare,  spiritualism, 
dancing,  the  gramophone,  possibly  be  regarded 
as  stages  in  a  quest  for  the  ideal,  a  crying  for 
the  moon,  a  search  for  the  good  or  the  true  or 
the  beautiful?  Caroline  was  sure  that  they 
could  not.  When  the  monkey  dresses  up  in  its 
owner's  finery,  when  the  jackdaw  steals  and 
hoards  fragments  of  glass  and  metal,  must  one 
recognise  proofs  of  a  soul  making  shift  with 
substitutes  because  the  absolute,  dimly  con- 
ceived, is  unattainable?  Caroline  thought  not. 
The  real  test  to  which  she  mentally  put  her 
mother  and  sister  and  brother  was  their  ca- 
pacity for  affection ;  and  none  of  them  stood  the 
test,  except,  perhaps,  Francis.  At  least,  he 
was  fond  of  his  father,  in  his  jaunty,  feather- 
headed  way.  But  Lady  Peel,  although  she 
called  her  children  and  her  friends  "Darling," 
and  often  professed  exceeding  love  for  them, 
and  although  Caroline  had  never  seen  her 
136 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


deliberately  unkind  to  anyone,  had  never  been 
known  by  her  to  do  anything  which  pointed  to 
a  sustained  or  profound  affection.  As  for 
Stella,  she  was  frankly  fickle. 

Sir  Harold,  of  course,  was  different  in  this 
respect.  He  cared  for  them  all,  Caroline  be- 
lieved— even  for  Roden,  with  whom  he  had  no 
sympathy.  The  trouble  with  Hal  was  that  he 
was  too  successful,  too  stolid,  too  closely  iden- 
tified with  comfortable  clubs,  a  luxurious  home 
respectability,  blind  optimism,  the  Church  and 
the  State.  Even  the  war  had  not  touched  him. 
He  was  as  ignorant  of  the  struggles  and  dark 
realities  of  poverty,  of  the  struggles  and  dark 
abysses  of  the  soul,  as  a  glossy-coated,  friend- 
ly, golden-brown  retriever  dog;  and  he  avoid- 
ed contact  with  such  things  more  successfully 
because  less  consciously  than  Evelyn  Cashel. 
If  at  the  time  of  Gerald's  death  Caroline  had 
gone  to  her  father  in  a  dumb  agony  he  would 
have  been  helpless,  embarrassed,  almost  re- 
sentful; he  certainly  would  have  produced  an 
atmosphere  of  grievance  against  her  after- 
wards. If  she  had  gone  to  him  weeping  he 
would  have  patted  her,  and,  with  tears  in  his 
own  eyes,  have  begged  her  to  take  comfort;  but 
Caroline  thought  that  such  an  incident,  far 
137 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


from  making  their  relation  more  close  and  in- 
timate, would  have  made  him  a  little  afraid  of 
her,  because  it  would  have  dragged  him  a  few 
steps  towards  the  edge  of  a  territory  of  whose 
existence  his  whole  life  was  a  consistent  denial. 

"No,"  she  had  decided,  turning  over  pre- 
paratory to  sleep.  "Hugh's  idea  must  have 
been  a  reaction  against  my  damned  superior 
condemnation  of  them.  I  don't  think  there's 
more  in  it  than  that.  .  .  .  But  Stella  certain- 
ly is  different  and  upset." 

Returning  from  Sheffield,  she  found  lunch 
already  on  the  table,  and  was  informed  that 
the  start  for  Monsal  Dale  was  fixed  for  half- 
past  two. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  rained,"  she 
said;  "it's  cloudy." 

"It's  a  south  wind,"  Francis  agreed,  "but 
I  don't  think  it'll  rain  till  to-night.  Let's  go, 
anyway." 

"Evelyn's  been  teaching  me  poker-patience, 
Cabs,"  cried  her  mother,  "and  it's  really  too 
entrancing.  I've  quite  decided  to  start  a  poker- 
patience  club.  .  .  .  Those  dreadful  children 
would  have  the  gramophone  on  the  whole 
morning.  It  was  too  distracting  for  words. 
I  know  your  Aunt  Violet  plays,  she  tried  to 
138 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


teach  it  to  me  once,  years  ago,  but  I  wouldn't 
play  anything  but  billiards  in  those  days.  And 
I  shall  teach  darling  Hildegarde  and  you  and 
Stella  and  Francis." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  the  boy  retorted. 

"Francis  darling,  your  way  of  answering  is 
very  crude.  We'll  take  the  cards  to  Monsal, 
anyway  .  .  .  Amy,  tell  cook  not  to  spread 
the  gentleman's  relish  sandwiches  too  thick." 

When  first  they  started  off,  packed  into  the 
big  car,  the  sun  was  obscured  by  clouds,  but 
when  they  arrived  at  the  Saracen's  Head  it 
came  out  again,  and  everyone  was  in  good 
spirits.  There  is  no  road  down  Monsal  Dale; 
even  the  rich  must  walk;  the  railway,  crossing 
the  river  on  a  viaduct  just  below  the  inn,  goes 
down  one  arm  of  the  L;  but  in  the  other  only 
the  voices  of  occasional  picnickers  and  the 
rushing  of  the  river  over  its  weirs  disturbs  the 
silence.  It  is  not  such  a  flowery  dale  as  some, 
although  in  May  the  lilies  pierce  the  limestone 
shale  of  the  steep  sides.  In  early  August, 
when  the  Peels  were  there,  there  was  only  a 
scattered  multitude  of  coltsfoot,  rock- rose,  thyme 
and  lady's  slipper;  a  few  clusters  of  big 
blue  cranesbill,  and  every  now  and  then  some 
creamy  spikes  of  meadow-sweet.  Caroline 
139 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


looked  in  vain  for  the  rarer  vetches,  the  beds 
of  large  glowing  willow-herb  and  the  tall  pur- 
ple campanulas  that  she  had  found  the  week 
before  in  Lathkill  Dale.  She  sat  down  disap- 
pointed by  the  weir;  but  soon  her  disappoint- 
ment faded  into  a  deep  content.  Sunlight  al- 
ternated quickly  with  shadow,  for  there  was  a 
strong  southern  breeze;  but  in  this  deep  nar- 
row valley  there  was  shelter.  The  continuous 
rushing  of  the  waterfall  over  its  stone  steps 
mesmerised  her.  A  little  way  off  Francis  and 
Stella  were  playing  beggar-my-neighbour  on  a 
rug.  Lady  Peel  and  Evelyn  were  wandering 
along  the  grassy  path  under  the  sycamores; 
the  chauffeur,  having  deposited  the  tea-basket, 
bad  taken  his  way  back  up  the  steep  slope  to 
the  Saracen's  Head.  No  other  picnickers 
were  in  sight.  A  sapphire  dragon-fly  darted 
past;  Caroline  thought  of  the  flashing  blue 
kingfishers  who,  she  had  read,  haunted  the 
streams  in  the  south.  What  was  there  so  won- 
derful about  blue,  setting  it  apart  from  other 
colours,  so  that  somehow  blue  flowers,  though 
not  more  beautiful  than  others,  have  a  peculiar 
charm? — so  that  the  halcyon  bird  has  become 
a  symbol  of  happiness,  and  azure  butterflies 
seem  the  embodiment  of  early  summer,  and  the 
140 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


blue  horizon  synonymous  with  unattainable 
desires  ?  There  is  some  association  in  men,  im- 
memorially  old,  prehistoric,  probably  prehu- 
man, which  vibrates  inexplicably  at  the  sight 
of  blue ;  perhaps  it  is  the  association  of  the  sky. 

After  some  time  Caroline  began  to  walk  in 
the  direction  which  her  mother  had  taken,  with 
the  half -formulated  intention  of  engaging  her 
in  conversation  about  Grace  Draper.  Nothing 
more  had  been  said  on  the  subject;  she  did  not 
know  if  a  refusal  had  already  been  sent  to 
Roden;  knowing  Lady  Peel's  dilatoriness,  she 
thought  it  improbable.  Evelyn's  presence 
would  be  no  bar  to  further  discussion;  he 
would  have  the  tact  to  be  silent,  even  if  direct- 
ly appealed  to  by  his  aunt.  The  latter  was  the 
more  amenable  the  fewer  persons  were  pres- 
ent ;  she  was  slightly  more  capable  of  a  reason- 
able mental  process  in  tete-a-tete  than  in  gen- 
eral conversation ;  it  was  possible  to  affect  her 
a  little  by  one's  own  concentration  and  deliber- 
ation if  one  had  her  alone. 

Caroline  was,  however,  spared  even  Evelyn 
as  an  audience.  When  she  came  up  with  Lady 
Peel  the  latter  was  seated  alone  on  a  knoll, 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Evelyn  insisted  on  climbing  the  hill,"  she 
141 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


explained,  "or,  rather,  on  trying  to.  Of  course 
it's  absurd.  I  refused  to  exhaust  myself  by 
scrabbling  on  a  cliff.  I  can't  think  why  he 
wouldn't  stay  comfortably  here  with  me  and 
enjoy  the  view." 

"I  suppose  he  thought  there 'd  be  a  better 
view  from  the  top,"  the  girl  answered.  "Or 
perhaps  he  just  wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  little 
while." 

"I  dare  say."  Lady  Peel  was  refreshingly 
free  from  sentimentality;  she  never  uttered 
what  she  thought  to  be  appropriate  or  telling 
remarks  about  nature,  human  or  otherwise, 
solitude,  art  or  love.  When  she  used  cant  ex- 
pressions it  was  because  they  fell  easily  off  her 
tongue,  not  because  she  thought  they  sounded 
fine  or  did  her  credit;  she  was  quite  without 
self-consciousness.  Her  children  did  not  fully 
appreciate  her  complete  spontaneity,  for  they 
had  never  endured  the  ordeal  of  close  or  pro- 
longed proximity  with/  a  sentimentalist,  a 
mouther  of  picturesque  or  would-be  profound 
phrases. 

The  couple  sat  for  a  few  moments  without 

speaking,    while    the    elder  woman  hummed. 

Caroline  was  collecting  her  resources.       She 

felt  like  a  governess  who  is  about  to  explain 

142 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


to  a  wayward,  scatter-brained  child,  who  does 
not  particularly  want  to  know,  why  it  is  high 
tide  on  both  sides  of  the  earth  at  once.  It  was, 
however,  essential  to  begin  before  her  mother 
either  opened  another  topic,  or  was  distracted 
by  the  return  of  Evelyn,  or  the  discovery  of 
an  ant-heap,  or  the  notion  of  tea;  so  she  asked: 

1  'You  haven't  written  to  Roden  or  Miss 
Draper  yet,  have  you?" 

"No.  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do, 
and  Hal  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  clear  idea 
of  what  line  to  take  either." 

"I  have,"  said  Caroline  boldly. 

Lady  Peel  looked  at  her  with  her  dark,  lum- 
inous, pathetic  eyes. 

"For  everybody's  sake  you  must  ask  her 
here,"  the  girl  went  on.  "For  ours,  because 
if  he  means  to  marry  her  it's  awfully  import- 
ant that  we  should  be  on  good  terms.  If  he 
doesn't  marry  her — well,  no  harm  will  have 
been  done.  It  seems  to  me  that's  the  only  sane 
view. ' ' 

There  was  a  pause;  then: 

"Well,  I  only  hope  Roden   isn't   expecting 
Hal  to  shell  out  any  capital    for   his    motor 
affair,"  came  the  unexpected  reply,  "because 
if  he  is  he'll  be  sadly  let  down." 
143 


THE    SINGING    CAPTIVES 


"I  don't  think  lie  is.  ...  But  why  shouldn't 
Hal,  as  a  matter  of  fact?"  The  girl  spoke  in- 
attentively, for  she  was  wondering  if  indeed 
victory  was  hers,  or  if  this  change  of  front  in- 
dicated further  resistance. 

"Your  father's  awfully  worried,"  Lady 
Peel  answered.  "In  fact  he's  what  Francis 
would  call  got  the  wind  up.  Of  course  I  expect 
it 's  all  just  a  scare ;  there  Ve  been  so  many,  and 
all  false  alarms;  I  shan't  begin  to  worry  yet. 
But  I  know  the  effect  of  these  scares  on  Hal; 
they  make  him  as  close  as  anything,  just  for  a 
little  while.  He  won't  be  feeling  inclined  to 
give  twopence  to  anybody  for  six  months  or 
so.  ...  My  dear,  look  at  that  exquisite  but- 
terfly with  splodges  of  red  on  it !  They  are  the 
most  unlikely  beasts — I  never  get  used  to  see- 
ing them  about." 

Caroline  was  mute  with  astonishment;  then 
after  a  moment  she  began  to  revise  the  im- 
pression conveyed  by  this  speech.  It  was  al- 
ways very  difficult  to  gauge  the  importance  of 
any  communication  of  her  mother's,  so  incal- 
culable, so  disproportionate,  were  her  gusts  of 
irritation,  interest,  weariness  or  surprise.  It 
was  impossible  to  tell  from  her  tone  whether 
she  was  referring  to  a  world-disaster  or  a  hole 
144 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


in  her  stocking,  immortality  or  chip  potatoes. 
One  of  the  sentences  she  had  just  spoken  had 
particularly  struck  her  listener:  ^ There Ve 
been  so  many,  and  all  false  alarms:  I  shan't 
begin  to  worry  yet."  That  might  signify  a 
very  great  deal  or  nothing  at  all.  However 
satisfactory  the  outcome  of  Sir  Harold's  peri- 
ods of  anxiety,  however  unnecessary  his  sub- 
sequent periods  of  economy,  wasn't  it  odd  that 
in  all  the  ten  years  Caroline  had  been  grown 
up  she  had  never  heard  of  either!  It  had 
never,  in  the  vaguest  way,  occurred  to  her  until 
yesterday  that  her  father  had  business  wor- 
ries; she  had  always  imagined  him  as  idling 
away  a  few  hours  in  a  resplendent  office,  pre- 
siding at  director's  meetings  and  declaring 
dividends  (whatever  that  might  mean!),  all 
with  the  Olympian,  unruffled,  complacent  calm 
of  the  man  whose  investments  bring  him  sev- 
eral thousands  a  year,  and  whose  investments 
are  as  "safe  as  houses."  But  the  very  word 
"worry"  spoilt  this  picture,  somehow  dimmed 
the  image  of  the  resplendent  office,  turned  the 
sleek  boards  of  directors  into  hurried,  harried 
men,  and  her  father  into  an  Atlas  rather  than 
a  Jupiter. 

"D'you  mean  to  say,  mother,    that    Hal's 
145 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


companies,  or  whatever  they  are,  aren't  doing 
well — aren  't  paying  ? ' ' 

" There's  practically  only  one  now  that 
counts,  from  our  point  of  view.  I  can't  tell 
you  why,  and  really  I  don't  care — it's  all  too 
tedious  for  words — but  Hal  has  lumped  a  vast 
sum  into  some  mine  or  other;  and  he's  in  a 
funk  now  for  fear  it  should  turn  out  a  bad 
thing." 

Caroline  felt  the  blood  withdrawing  from 
her  cheeks,  from  her  neck — withdrawing  in  a 
chill  shiver  down  her  spine.  She  stared  in 
silence  at  her  mother's  face. 

"My  darling  girl,  don't  look  so  upset!  I 
tell  you  it's  probably  all  a  false  alarm." 

That  brought  Caroline  back  to  the  sentence 
which  seemed  to  be  a  clue  to  some  unexplained 
portion  of  her  existence.  "Did  you  say  that  he 
had  often  been  in  a  funk  before?" 

"Not  so  badly;  no,  not  nearly  so  badly.  Poor 
old  Hal!  I  think  we  shall  have  to  tear  our- 
selves away  from  town  this  winter,  Cabs,  and 
take  him  abroad.  We  might  go  to  Cannes,  and 
then  to  Switzerland  after  New  Year.  Wouldn't 
it  be  rather  amusing? — and  back  by  Paris  in 
the  spring.  You'd  like  that,  wouldn't  you?" 

"But,  mother,  tell  me  this:  does  Hal  go  in 
146 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


for  unsafe  things?  I  mean,  does  he  really  .  .  . 
speculate  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,  darling.  Why  not?  Every- 
body in  the  city  does.  We  shouldn't  ever  have 
had  half  the  money  we  have  got  if  Hal  hadn't 
speculated."  There  was  a 'pause,  and  then 
Lady  Peel  pursued:  "I  wish  Evelyn  would 
come  back.  It  must  be  tea-time.  Come  on, 
Cabs,  I'm  getting  chilly.  Give  him  a  shout." 

It  was  useless,  Caroline  saw,  to  question  her 
further;  she  was  already  tired  of  the  subject. 
She  called  to  her  cousin,  and  when  he  came, 
lingered  behind  while  he  went  on  with  her 
gaily-chatting  mother. 

She  was  too  much  disturbed  to  be  able  at 
once  to  recover  her  equanimity.  How  hard 
and  surprising  her  discovery,  even  with  its 
edges  blurred  by  Lady  Peel's  off-hand  manner 
of  telling,  by  her  obvious  taking  of  it  for  grant- 
ed! It  necessitated  a  complete  revision  of 
Caroline's  view  of  her  father,  the  formation  of 
an  altogether  new  conception  of  him.  She  was 
not  so  immediately  concerned  as  to  his  present 
financial  situation;  it  was  impossible  to  judge 
from  Lady  Peel's  account  how  bad  that  situ- 
ation was;  but  his  appearance,  the  difference 
she  had  dimly  perceived  in  him,  did  not  di- 
147 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


minish  her  apprehensions.  That,  however,  was 
a  question  not  yet  capable  of  solution;  what 
she  already  felt  certain  of  was  that  she  had  in- 
deed utterly  misjudged  her  father — his  charac- 
ter, his  temperament,  his  attitude  towards  ex- 
istence— everything!  He,  the  safe,  the  solid, 
the  unemotional,  the  unimaginative,  was  a 
gambler  in  stocks  and  shares!  She  tried  to 
tone  down  her  conviction,  to  assure  herself 
that  she  was  being  melodramatic  and  exagger- 
ated ;  but  the  conviction  persisted  in  its  height- 
ened tones.  The  very  readiness  of  Lady  Peel 
to  admit  the  charge  against  her  husband  in 
some  way  contributed  to  the  convincingness  of 
Caroline's  impression;  her  mother  evidently 
took,  and  always  had  taken,  his  speculations, 
his  scares  and  economies,  his  drawings  in  and 
launchings  out,  his  swayings  over  the  abyss  of 
ruin  and  his  recoveries,  quite  as  matters  of 
course ;  she  probably  minimised  the  dangers  of 
the  game  because  she  was  so  used  to  it  and  be- 
cause she  did  not  enquire  into  the  details.  But 
to  Caroline  the  idea  of  Hal  engaged  in  this 
reckless  sport — and  as  a  sport  she  visualised  it : 
something  like  mountain-climbing — was  a  stun- 
ning, astounding,  revolutionary  idea ;  it  blotted 
out  everything  else  for  the  moment,  like  one 
148 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


of  those  headaches  whose  piston-throbbing 
dwarfs  the  whole  universe,  so  that  nothing  else 
is  of  the  slightest  importance. 

Tea,  the  packing  up,  the  walk  to  the  car,  the 
drive  home,  passed  for  her  in  a  dream.  She 
looked,  with  a  new  interest  added  to  her  famil- 
iar scorn,  at  her  mother,  who,  undeterred  by 
the  possibility  of  trouble,  chattered  and  ges- 
ticulated with  her  customary  liveliness.  Now 
that  the  first  shock  of  discovery  was  over,  it 
was  the  practical  aspect  of  the  case  which  be- 
gan to  occupy  Caroline.  As  they  drew  near 
home  she  became  tormented  with  anxiety  to 
hasten  their  progress,  to  learn  the  result  of 
her  father's  visit  to  town,  to  know  the  worst. 
Anything  might  have  happened — and  here  was 
her  mother  telling  the  chauffeur  to  slow  down 
that  she  might  exchange  polite  remarks  with 
an  acquaintance  in  the  road.  This  fiddling 
was  far  worse  than  Nero's;  it  had  not  even 
the  sublime  absurdity  of  a  megalomaniac's 
gesture;  it  placed  her  mother,  more  certainly 
than  ever  before,  more  irretrievably  and  des- 
picably on  a  level  with  creatures  not  human. 
Caroline  was  filled  with  cold  anger  against  her. 
Looking  ostentatiously  at  her  watch  she  broke 
into  the  small-talk,  saying  in  clear,  hard  tone  • 
149 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"If  we  go  on  at  once  we  shall  just  have  time  to 
meet  Hal  at  the  station. " 

"Very  well,"  Lady  Peel  agreed.  "Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Baines.  Go  on,  Hutchinson.  Go  to 
the  station.  Francis,  dear,  you  might  walk  up 
to  make  room  for  Hal. ' ' 

' '  No, ' '  said  Caroline,  once  more  unconscious- 
ly echoing  her  father's  tone,  which  fact  this 
time  seemed  to  pass  unnoticed  by  Stella,  "Pm 
going  to  walk  up  with  him." 

"But  I  expect  he'll  be  tired,  Cabs.  Don't  be 
silly,  darling.  Francis  won't  mind  walking  up, 
will  you,  dear  boy?" 

The  girl  made  no  reply ;  but,  jumping  out  as 
soon  as  the  car  stopped,  she  moved  quickly  in- 
to the  station.  The  train  was  signalled.  Stella 
and  her  brother,  idly  following,  joined  her; 
but  she  ignored  them  until  the  train  was  ac- 
tually in  sight.  Then,  turning  on  them  with  all 
the  command  she  could  muster,  she  said:  "Go 
back — go  up  in  the  car.  Please,  Stella.  I  must 
speak  to  father." 

"What  is  it?"  the  boy  asked  quickly. 

"It  may  be  nothing.  I'll  tell  you  afterwards. 
Please  go,  Francis." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered  to  her  immense 
relief,  his  words  drowned  in  the  noise  of  the 
150 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


approaching  train;  and  he  must  have  added 
something  to  Stella,  for  she,  inquisitive  and 
unwilling,  nevertheless  obeyed  her  sister  and 
turned  with  him  towards  the  station  exit. 

Caroline  had  ceased,  at  his  reply,  to  notice 
her  companions;  all  her  faculties  were  concen- 
trated on  catching  sight  of  her  father  as  he 
descended,  in  deducing  from  his  appearance 
whether  he  carried  bad  tidings  or  good.  This 
she  was,  however,  unable  to  do.  He  came  to- 
wards her,  upright,  well-groomed,  young  in 
bearing  and  yet  unhurried  as  always,  overtop- 
ping many  of  the  other  passengers  in  height, 
and  surpassing  all  in  distinction.  She  had  a 
right  to  be  proud  of  his  appearance:  no  won- 
der foreigners,  waiters,  newsboys,  called  him 
"me  lord."  She  had  thought  that  that  was  the 
whole  man — that  he  was  a  type,  a  figurehead, 
one  whose  suavity  and  courtesy  were  polish 
upon  a  simple,  solid,  eminently  reliable,  be- 
cause so  limited,  structure.  She  had  imagined 
that  he  was  hedged  away  not  only  by  upbring- 
ing, tradition,  and  circumstances,  but  also  by 
character  and  temperament,  from  all  contact 
with  danger  or  romance,  from  all  extremes  of 
thought,  conduct  or  emotion.  She  knew  now 
that  she  had  been  gulled;  she  could  smile  at 
151 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


her  former  fatuous  unhesitating  judgment. 
Surely  to  play  with  money  involves  romance 
and  danger  and  the  possibility  of  any  ex- 
tremes; it  implies  a  desire  for  them,  a  wooing 
of  them,  a  courage,  a  refinement  of  reckless- 
ness which  she  admired.  She  was  beginning 
to  know  him  now,  to  love  him.  She  hastened 
forward  to  meet  him. 

' 'Arc  you  alone,  Cabs!"  he  asked,  and  she 
thought  she  detected  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "At  least,  I  think 
so.  The  others  were  going  up  in  the  car. 
We're  just  back  from  a  picnic."  She  wanted 
to  add :  * '  Mother  has  told  me.  Are  you  ruined  ? ' ' 
but  the  phrase  "Fly:  all  is  discovered," 
coming  to  her  mind,  prevented  her.  At  last, 
however,  she  screwed  up  her  courage  to  say: 
"Have  you — are  you  less  worried?  Have 
things  gone  well  today?" 

Sir  Harold  did  not  turn  his  face  towards  her 
as  they  walked,  nor  did  he  reply  quickly;  she 
had  time  to  expect  a  snub. 

"You  knew  I  was  worried?"  he  asked  her. 
"My  little  Cabs,  your  stupid  old  father  has 
come  down  badly  this  time." 

"This  time,"  she  echoed  vacantly,  a  little 
dazed. 

152 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


There  was  a  long  pause. 

"Are  we  ...  shall  we  have  to  be  .  .  .to 
live  in  quite  a  different  way?"  Caroline  pres- 
ently enquired,  with  unprecedented  timidity. 

Without!  answering,  he  nodded;  and  his 
daughter,  as  they  climbed  the  hill,  felt  for  the 
first  time  for  years  like  a  very  small,  depend- 
ent, ignorant  and  bewildered  child. 


153 


XL 


DINNER  passed  off  much  as  usual.  Caroline, 
still  in  her  bewildered,  helpless  state  of  mind, 
scanned  her  mother's  face  in  vain  for  some  in- 
dication that  the  bad  news  had  been  broken 
to  her ;  Lady  Peel  was  her  ordinary  self — talk- 
ative, restless,  fidgety;  her  eyes  shining  dark 
and  pathetic  in  her  young,  though  dim  and 
wrinkled,  face.  She  had  put  on  a  new  tea- 
gown,  and  against  its  blue  the  yellowness  of 
her  skin  was  accentuated.  She  was  to-night 
perhaps  more  than  usual  like  a  piece  of  bric- 
a-brac,  at  once  fragile,  wiry,  and  grotesque.  She 
was  discussing  theosophy  with  Evelyn  Cashel, 
praising  it  in  her  inconsequent,  unconvincing 
way,  while  her  nephew  insinuated  his  languid 
and  yet  often  pointed  remarks — comments 
rather  than  replies. 

Stella  and  Francis  were  speaking  in  low- 
tones  to  each  other,  ending  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  laughter. 

" What's  the  joke;  what  is  it?"  their  mo- 
ther cried  testily;  but  Francis  would  only 
154 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


droop  an  eyelid  in  response,  while  Stella  began 
to  interest  Evelyn  in  the  clothes  she  meant  to 
buy  on  her  return  to  town. 

Only  Sir  Harold  and  Caroline  were  silent; 
but  that  was  customary.  Nothing,  nothing  ap- 
parently was  changed;  and  yet  it  was  to  the 
girl  as  though  a  spectre  stood  within  the  door, 
unheeded;  as  though  some  one  had  died  and 
lay  ignored  upstairs ;  as  though  some  infinitely 
complex  situation  with  which  no  one  there  was 
competent  to  deal  had  arisen  unknown  and  un- 
envisaged.  These  children,  playing  with  buck- 
ets and  spades  upon  the  shore,  were  ignorant 
of  the  tidal  wave  which  swept,  house-high,  to- 
wards them.  It  was  too  late  to  cry  out,  to 
warn  them ;  it  was  already  upon  them,  and  upon 
her  too,  the  watcher.  She  looked  at  her  father 
who,  with  one  hand  at  his  beard,  stared  at  the 
dish  before  him. 

How  would  her  mother  take  the  news?  With 
a  nerve-crisis,  a  tear-storm,  or  with  a  bewil- 
dered, helpless  silence  like  her  own  ?  How  would 
she  accustom  herself  to  circumstances  of  pov- 
erty and  discomfort  after  a  life-time  of  wealth 
and  luxury?  It  would  need  the  combined 
forces  of  Caroline  and  Hal  to  impose  on  Lady 
Peel  the  necessary  economy.  And  there  was 
155 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Stella — and  Francis.  What  would  become  of 
him?  Would  enough  be  saved  from  the  wreck 
of  their  fortunes  not  only  to  keep  them  housed, 
fed  and  warm,  but  to  pay  Francis'  Cambridge 
fees?  And  Roden,  where  would  he  come  in? 
Already  half  cut  adrift  from  them,  he  would 
certainly  be  no  problem,  and  probably  not  a 
help  either.  But  it  comforted  Caroline  to 
think  of  him,  absorbed  in  his  work  and  in  his 
art,  contented  with  his  unself-conscious  little 
typist.  It  was  a  good  thing  that  one  member 
of  the  family  at  least  was  more  or  less  inde- 
pendent, would  not  be  involved  in  the  crash. 

By  dint  of  thinking,  however  inconsecutive- 
ly,  of  these  aspects  of  the  disaster — for  Caro- 
line, by  a  safeguarding  instinct,  assumed  that 
her  father's  situation  amounted  to  disaster — 
she  began  to  emerge  from  her  childish,  help- 
less mood  into  one  more  normal  for  her  years 
and  character.  She  began,  healthily,  to  be 
thankful  on  her  family's  behalf  that  she  was 
there,  young  and  sane  and  intelligent — even  if 
uneducated  and  ignorant — able  to  grasp  the 
implications  of  the  event,  able  to  think  ahead, 
to  plan,  and  when  the  time  came  to  take  action ; 
Hal  would  not  be  without  a  lieutenant  in  the 
struggle  with  adversity.  It  did  not  occur  to 
156 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


her  to  question  his  capacity  for  leadership;  a 
life-time  habit  of  unconscious,  unquestioning 
trust  and  dependence,  even  when  tempered  by 
intellectual  and  moral  snobbishness,  cannot  be 
cast  off  in  a  day.  He  had  been  shown  to  her, 
fragmentarily  by  her  mother,  as  very  different 
from  the  man  she  had  imagined  him  to  be ;  and 
yet  she  still  counted  on  him,  by  an  unreasoning 
but  perfectly  sound  instinct,  to  act  with  sense 
and  foresight  and  integrity.  To  have  gambled 
and  to  have  lost  does  not  necessarily  imply 
knavery  or  even  folly.  And  there  he  was, 
looking,  except  for  fatigued  eyes,  just  the  same 
as  ever,  solid,  calm  and  suave;  not  giving  in 
his  appearance  one  clue  to  that  fatal  passion, 
making  it  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  he 
had  ever  thrilled  to  danger,  uncertainty,  excite- 
ment, triumph, — ever  been  sick  with  defeat. 
There  he  was,  with  all  that  he  was,  not  only  the 
long-familiar,  but  also  the  newly-discovered, 
summed  up  in  the  word  "Hal." 

"The  moon's  getting  up,"  said  Francis,  as 
they  rose  from  the  table.  "Let's  take  the  car 
out  for  a  run,"  he  added  with  nonchalance; 
"I'll  drive." 

"Now  don't  say  you're  tired,  Evelyn,  you 
157 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


lazy  pig.    Come  and  put  your  coat  on,"  cried 
Stella.    "Coming,  Cabs?" 

Caroline  glanced  at  her  parents;  her  father 
was  drinking  coffee,  her  mother  lighting  a  cig- 
arette. "Yes,"  she  said. 

It  had  grown  finer  since  sunset,  and  of 
course  colder.  Snuggling  in  her  fur  coat  be- 
side, but  not  close  to,  Evelyn  in  the  large  back 
of  the  car,  the  girl  reflected  that  this  was  very 
nearly  the  last  pleasure  drive  she  would  ever 
get  in  it.  She  supposed  that  retrenchments  in 
expenditure  would  have  to  be  begun  immedi- 
ately; the  house  in  London  and  the  car  would 
be  sold;  they  would  move  into  some  poky  flat 
or  villa  in  Hammersmith  or  Hampstead  or 
Surbiton.  Who  was  it  who  had  talked  about 
living  in  a  villa?  .  .  .  Grace  Draper,  of 
course,  that  day  when  she  and  Eoden  and  Grace 
had  lunched  together. 

Evelyn  was  leaning  forward,  saying  some- 
thing to  Stella.  Caroline  felt,  suddenly,  her 
isolation.  As  usual,  heri  subsequent  thought 
was  of  Hugh.  She  must  write  to  Ann  and 
Hugh  to-morrow. 

"Hal  and  I  are  going  to  Cambridge  for  a 
week-end  next  term,"    called    Stella,    turning 
round  to  continue  a  conversation. 
158 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"I  wonder  if  he's  telling  mother  now,"  Caro- 
line wondered. 

11  Let's  go  back,"  said  Evelyn  plaintively. 
"The  moon's  exquisite — 'and  with  so  wan  a 
face' — but  I  can  watch  her  quite  well  from  the 
drawing-room,  and  have  a  whisky  and  soda  at 
the  same  time." 

"Oh,  we  ought  to  have  gone  by  'Surprise,'  ' 
Stella  suddenly  cried;  and  at  that  her  brother 
slowed  down,  turned  the  car,  and  took  them 
back,  through  their  own  village,  up  a  hill,  and 
along  the  moorland  road  which,  with  a  sharp 
sudden  bend  between  high  rocky  banks,  brings 
you  suddenly  out  on  to  the  edge  of  the  valley 
which  their  house  overlooked,  but  at  a  point  a 
few  miles  distant.  The  landscape  lay  spread 
out  in  that  unearthly,  remote,  calm,  miracul- 
ous beauty  which  moonlight  gives;  the  hollows 
filled  with  mist,  the  woods  black  with  shadow, 
the  fields  and  roofs  washed  with  a  dim  pallor. 

Caroline  leant  forward  and  said  "Stop." 
The  brakes  ground;  they  paused,  all  staring  in 
silence. 

"Topping!"  Francis  murmured,  releasing 
the  brakes  again,  and  they  slid  forward  down 
the  hill. 

Caroline  was  disturbed  by  the  conflict  in  her 
159 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


mind  between  that  peaceful  wonder  and  her 
troubled  thoughts.  Beauty  had  only  partially 
entered  into  her;  she  felt  cheated  of  its  full 
effect.  It  seemed  to  her  that  on  foot,  alone,  or 
with  one  congenial  companion,  she  could  have 
taken  full  measure  of  the  moonlit  landscape's 
influence;  but  not  thus,  in  the  car,  with  these 
three,  who  were,  somehow,  in  league  with  lux- 
ury. As  long  as  things  went  well — as  long  as 
they  were  yours — motors  and  rich  clothes, 
large  houses  and  good  food  were  beautiful,  not 
sordid  nor  hostile  to  finer,  less  material  things ; 
but  once  they  became  important  because  in 
danger  of  vanishing  or  difficult  of  attainment, 
they  became  obstructions,  and  were  the  enem- 
ies of  beauty.  They  were,  she  thought,  like 
sex,  which,  when  it  has  its  desired  expression, 
is  so  close  an  ally  to  beauty  that  they  are  in- 
separable; but  when  thwarted  becomes  a  bur- 
den, and  the  enemy  of  all  that  should  be  its 
happiest  concomitants. 

When  they  arrived  home  it  was  half-past 
ten.  The  downstairs  rooms  were  dark.  Caro- 
line went  straight  upstairs;  and  presently  she 
heard  the  others  come  talking  down  the  pass- 
age, and  with  "Good  nights"  retire  to  their 
rooms.  The  cold  rush  through  the  air  had 
160 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


made  her  sleepy ;  but  after  settling  down  in  the 
dark  she  found  it  had  been  a  merely  superfi- 
cial symptom  which  now  vanished.  She  lit  her 
bed-lamp  and  opened  a  library  book  of  which 
she  had  read  more  than  half.  It  was  called 
The  Happy  Foreigner,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  chapter  was  a  description  of  moonrise  in 
the  forests  of  Chantilly.  The  flexible,  natural 
and  yet  fastidious  style  of  the  writer  fascinated 
Caroline.  The  last  paragraph  made  her 
want  to  look  at  the  moon  again.  She  got  up, 
still  in  the  dreamy  yet  exceedingly  vital  state 
into  which  absorbed  reading  puts  one,  and, 
turning  out  the  lamp,  went  to  the  window. 
''Stupid!  it's  on  t'other  side,  of  course,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

Her  room  faced  sideways  on  to  the  narrow 
shelf  of  the  rose  garden.  She  could  see  the 
paler  roses  on  their  stems.  Beyond,  the  beech 
trees  were  grey;  the  sky  above,  the  indescrib- 
able deep  blue  of  midnight. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  gravel  path,  and 
looking  down  she  saw  her  mother  walking 
swiftly  away  from  the  house  towards  the  roses. 
"What  on  earth?  .  .  . "  she  murmured  *o  her- 
self, and  then,  without  hesitating,  seized  her 
dressing-gown,  thrust  her  feet  into  slippers, 
161 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


and  cautiously  opened  the  door.  There  was 
not  a  sound  in  the  house.  She  crept  along  the 
passage,  down  the  stairs,  and  then,  with  her 
thoughts  moving  orderly  and  clearly  in  her 
brain,  went  to  the  hall  cupboard  where  over- 
coats hung,  and  took  from  it  her  own  and  her 
mother's  fur  coats.  They  were  heavy,  and 
clasping  them,  she  forgot  to  raise  her  dressing- 
gown  from  the  floor,  and,  moving  towards  the 
front  door,  stumbled  against  a  chair. 

She  paused  motionless  to  listen ;  but  nothing 
ensued.  A  clock  struck  the  half-hour  as  she 
unbolted  the  door.  It  was  a  laborious  business, 
but  safer  than  going  out  through  the  drawing- 
room  windows,  which  were  directly  under  her 
father's  and  mother's,  and  the  creak  of  which 
would  possibly  wake  Hal.  She  had  no  wish  to  be 
followed,  following  her  mother ;  her  sense  of  hu- 
mour, usually,  like  everyone's,  keen  at  wakeful 
midnight,  repudiated  the  idea  of  a  comic  fam- 
ily encounter. 

She  stole  across  the  path  and  on  to  the  turf 
The  wind  had  dropped  to  a  little  breeze;  the 
moon  was  setting.  Lady  Peel  was  no  longer 
visible;  she  might  have  passed  into  the  vege- 
table garden,  a  tapering  triangle  beyond  the 
rose  hedge,  or  she  might  be  sitting  under  the 
162 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


rambler  arbour.  As  she  approached  the  lat- 
ter, the  girl  called  "mother!"  softly.  There 
was  no  response  and  she  saw  a  moment  after 
that  it  was  an  empty,  dark,  fragrant  shell. 

The  wicket  gate  into  the  vegetable  patch 
creaked  as  she  opened  it;  and  emerging,  she 
saw  Lady  Peel  facing  her  along  an  alley  of 
scarlet  runners.  She  advanced,  not  hurrying, 
between  the  bean  hedges,  and  said  calmly: 
"Put  this  on,  mother,  dear;  it's  cold."  She 
saw  that  her  companion  was  in  her  nightdress 
and  a  woollen  sweater. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here,  Cabs!" 

"I  looked  out  and  saw  you." 

The  elder  woman  turned  away.  "I  was  go- 
ing up  the  hill  when  I  heard  the  gate  squeak," 
she  said,  indicating  a  rough  little  track  which 
climbed  the  slope  and  higher  up  joined  the 
beechwood  path.  Caroline  followed,  clutching 
her  skirts,  and  they  climbed  in  silence  until 
they  were  under  the  trees. 

"Let's  sit  down,"  said  Lady  Peel.  "Put  on 
your  coat,  darling.  Are  you  warm?" 

"Quite  warm."       Their  matter-of-factness 

was  complete.     The  girl  perceived    that    her 

mother,  was  in  one  of  her  rare,  preoccupied, 

thoughtful  moods.  They  sat  down  on  the  rough 

163 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


twig  and  nut-strewn  path.  It  was  very 
dark  and  sheltered  under  the  trees,  and  they 
could  see  only  each  other's  faces,  and  those  in- 
distinctly. 

"How  bad  is  it?"  Caroline  wondered  aloud. 

"It's  as  bad  as  can  be,"  her  companion  an- 
swered dreamily.  "Of  course,  Hal  will  get  a 
job  with  a  fairly  big  salary;  but  it's  bound  to 
be  rather  miserable  for  us.  What  do  people 
who  are  badly  off  do  to  pass  the  time?" 

"I  suppose  they  see  friends,  and  do  things 
in  their  houses,  and  read  and  sew." 

"That's  what  I  don't  know — how  we  shall 
pass  the  time,"  said  Lady  Peel  softly,  as 
though  her  daughter  had  not  spoken.  "Of 
course  Stella  will  probably  marry  soon,"  she 
added  after  a  pause. 

"She  doesn't  seem  to  care  for  anyone  spe- 
cially, though,  does  she  ?  She  told  me  yesterday 
she  didn't'  want  to  marry  Geoffrey  Laken- 
bridge." 

"People  are  different,  I  don't  know  how 
like  me  Stella  is." 

Caroline  was  at  a  loss.  Evidently  her  mother 
was  embarked  on  some  characteristically  wan- 
dering train  of  thought;  it  might  be  pertinent 
or  not;  how  could  her  daughter  arrive  at  it? 
164 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


What  could  one  think  about  in  such  circum- 
stances?— one's  youth,  surely,  the  years  of 
plenty  now  so  suddenly  brought  to  an  end,  and 
their  beginning.  What  had  her  mother  been 
like  as  a  girl — Sir  Harold  as  a  young  man?  It 
seemed  that  they  must  always  have  been  what 
they  were  now;  people  did  not  alter  funda- 
mentally. It  must  be  odd,  and  yet  quite  ordin- 
ary, to  have  spent  years  and  years  in  such  a 
close  relation  as  husband  and  wife.  She  had 
often  during  her  engagement,  pictured  the 
long  time  ahead  in  which  she  would  have  grown 
closer  and  closer  to  Gerald.  In  connection 
with  no  one  else  would  this  prospect  have  been 
tolerable;  would  it  ever  be  tolerable  again?  It 
could  be  a  perfect  relation  or  an  odious  one. 
But  it  seemed  that  her  parents  was  half-way 
between  the  two.  It  was  hard  to  know;  she 
would  never  again  feel  able  with  absolute  cer- 
tainty to  deduce  facts  from  appearances;  her 
misjudgement  of  Hal  had  taught  her  how  easy 
it  is  to  make  mistakes. 

"I  don't  think  Stella's  ever  been  in  love," 
said  Lady  Peel. /'She's  twenty-one,  isn't  she?" 

"Yes.  I  hadn't  been  in  love  till  I  was  with 
Gerald,  and  I  was  twenty-two." 

1  'I  fell  in  love  when  I  was  nineteen.  And  I 
165 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


was  married  on  the  day  I  came  of  age."  The 
speaker  managed  to  convey  by  her  tone  that 
the  two  facts  existed  independently  of  each 
other  in  her  mind. 

"Were  you  engaged  long?"  Caroline  asked; 
it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  talked  to  her 
mother  of  the  days  preceding  her  own  birth. 

"I  was  engaged  for  a  month.  Hal  brought 
me  a  present  every  day;  sometimes  jewellery, 
often  flowers.  .  .  .  Can  you  smell  the  roses, 
Cabs?  I  believe  I  can  distinguish  that  old- 
fashioned  tea." 

"You're  like;  Roden — I  mean,  he  gets  his 
sense  of  smell  from  you."  It  was  useless  try- 
ing to  prevent  digressions. 

"Yes,  I've  got  a  very  good  sense  of  smell. 
Sometimes  it's  been  a  pest." 

Caroline  was  startled.  "And  to  me,  too," 
she  said  quickly,  "though  I  haven't  a  specially 
keen  one."  She  thought  what  anguish  the 
memory  of  an  odour — could  that  be  only  a 
memory  which  seemed  actually  to  touch  her 
nostrils? — had  caused  her. 

"I  could  always  win  at  that  game  they  used 

to  have  at  children's  parties — different  things 

in  pots  that  one  smelt,  and  had  to  say  the  name 

of.   ...  I  wonder  what  time  it  is?    I  don't 

166 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


think  I  could  sleep  yet.  Aren't  you  sleepy, 
Cabs?" 

"Not  a  bit?    Is  Hal  asleep?" 

"Yes.  I  waited  till  he  was.  He  needs  rest; 
it's  been  a  perfectly  dreadful  week  for  him. 
...  I  wonder  what  that  awfully  bright  star 
is — there,  between  those  branches.  Can  you 
see  ?  I  used  to  be  awfully  keen  on  astronomy 
once — before  I  was  married." 

"Was  it  a  great  shock,  when  father  told 
you?" 

Perhaps  Lady  Peel  had  to  drag  her  mind 
from  the  past  into  the  present ;  at  all  events,  it 
was  not  till  after  a  pause  that  she  replied:  "I 
don't  think  it  was  a  shock.  Perhaps  I'd  got 
used  to  the  idea  because  of  all  the  times  Hal's 
been  worried  before.  But  of  course  I  didn't 
ever  think  it  would  really  happen.  It's  hor- 
rible; it's  a  dreadful  worry.  It's  beastly  for 
you  poor  children.  Hal  says  Francis  won't  be 
able  to  go  to  the  'Varsity  after  all  ...  poor 
boy,  he  will  be  upset.  We  must  wire  to  Roden 
to-morrow,  I  suppose.  It  doesn't  really  mat- 
ter now  whether  he  marries  that  girl  or  not. 
We  shan't  have  any  position  to  keep  up." 

"But  wasn't  it  important  anyway  for  him 
167 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


to  marry  the  person  he  wanted  to!"  the  girl 
said  with  a  sudden  return  of  irritation. 

"Yes,  oh  quite,  if  he  was  really  in  love  with 
her.  But  I  don't  believe  he  is.  It  would  be 
like  him  to  want  that  sort  of  wife  out  of  per- 
versity. Oh  no,"  Lady  Peel  exclaimed,  as 
though  reassuring  herself  against  a  doubt,  "I 
don't  believe  for  a  minute  he  really  cares  aw- 
fully about  this  Draper  girl." 

"Don't  you?  I  do." 

"Do  you  really,  Cabs?"  her  mother  asked 
with  an  access  of  her  customary  animation  re- 
placing the  dreamy,  introspective  tone;  "  Well, 
in  that  case  I've  been  wrong  all  along.  Not 
that  he  won't  marry,  anyway,  if  he  wants  to, 
of  course.  If  it's  true  love,  nobody  ought  to 
come  between  them." 

So  that  was  the  line  to  have  taken!  Not  to 
have  pleaded  policy,  expediency,  but  the  cause 
of  true  love !  Unaccountable  woman !  she  must 
have  a  sentimental  side  as  yet  unbetrayed  to 
her  children. 

"I  think  I  shall  try  and  see  more  of  Mrs. 
Leverson."  She  was  off  on  quite  a  different 
track  now.  "I  think  a  religion  like  Theosophy 
might  be  so  helpful  and  calming.  Besides,  one 
must  do  something;  and  that  won't  cost  money, 
168 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


as  most  things  do.  ...  Have  you  a  cigarette 
case  on  you,  darling?" 

"No;  shall  I  fetch  it?" 

"Never  mind.  .  .  I  shall  go  in  soon.  I 
mustn't  keep  you  up  all  night  gossiping  about 
my  past."  She  began  to  make  movements 
preparatory  to  rising. 

"You've  hardly  said  anything  about  your 
past,  mother;  you  only  said  you  fell  in  love 
with  Hal  when  you  were  nineteen,  and  married 
him  on  your  twenty-first  birthday." 

Lady  Peel  got  to  her  feet,  and,  moving  her 
hands,  answered  sharply  yet  softly,  "I  said 
'fell  in  love.'  "  There  was  a  brief  pause  while 
Caroline  peered  up  at  her  indistinguishable 
face.  "I  fell  in  love  with  one  man,  and  I  mar- 
ried another." 

"D'you  mean  that  you  didn't  love  Hal?" 

"I  liked  him,  and  he  was  awfully  in  love 
with  me,  goodness  only  knows  why  ...  I  was 
a  plainish  little  object." 

"What  happened  to  the  other  man?" 

"He  went  back  to  the  West  Coast  of  Africa, 
where  his  work  was.  Of  course,  if  I'd  had  the 
determination,  I  could  have  married  him  and 
gone  too.  But  it's  a  deadly  climate;  he  hadn't 
any  private  means,  and  my  people  were  dead 
169 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


set  against  it."  And  a  moment  she  added: 
"Come  on,  darling,  let's  go  back  now." 

Caroline  rose  unwillingly,  and  stood  above 
her  mother  in  the  dark  of  the  beech  trees. 
"Have  you  ever  regretted  it — what  you  did?" 
she  asked,  trying  to  read  her  companion's  face; 
but  the  latter  turned  to  go  down  the  path, 
answering : 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  I've  regretted  it.  HaPs 
a  dear;  we've  got  on  awfully  well;  but  every 
one  knows  it's  not  the  same  thing.  I'm  too 
faithful — it's  stupid — I'm  too  constant.  It  took 
me  years  to  get  over  Maurice ;  and  all  the  time 
I  had  to  keep  myself  busy  with  something: 
you  children,  and  the  blind,  and  dress,  hunting 
and  yachting,  and  care  committees.  I've  always 
had  something  interesting  on:  hand,  thank 
heaven.  That's  what  worries  me  about  our  be- 
ing poor.  It  costs  such  a  lot  to  do  amusing 
things — even  gramophone  records  cost 
money." 

Never  before  had  Caroline  become  aware  of 
any  definite  heritage  passed  by  her  mother  to 
her,  except  her  dark  hair  and  her  gift  of  the 
gab.  In  the  foregoing  speech  one  sentence 
struck  her  specially:  "It  took  me  years  to  get 
over  Maurice."  That  was  where  it  came  from 
170 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


— her  tenacious  love,  her  hard-dying  passion, 
the  fidelity  which  kept  her  Gerald 's  long  after 
his  death.  And  just  as  unfortunate  love  had 
driven  her  into  the  fortress  of  herself,  from 
which  she  looked  out,  at  once  fearful  and 
supercilious,  at  life,  so  unfortunate  love  had 
driven  Leila  Cashel,  hecome  Leila  Peel,  into 
the  midst  of  trivial  and  absorbing  occupations, 
seeking  distraction  feverishly  here  and  there, 
casting  off  the  worn-out  fad,  and  taking  on  the 
new,  in  the  absolute  necessity  of  somehow 
passing  the  time. 

She  saw,  now,  how  in  truth  she  was  her 
mother's  child.  The  calm  she  had  inherited 
from  Hal  had  seemed  to  divide  her,  in  the  past, 
from  her  mother,  just  as  other  differences 
divide  them  in  the  present.  Physical  bonds 
meant  nothing  to  Caroline,  she  had  no  sense  of 
blood  being  thicker  than  water;  but  this  dis- 
covered heritage,  this  dissatisfaction  with  life 
manifested  in  such  contrary  ways,  was  a  bond 
whose  strength  she  recognised. 

In  silence  they  regained  the  sleep-wrapped 
house. 


171 


xn. 

IT  was  late  on  Monday  evening  when  Roden 
arrived  in  Derbyshire.  There  was  no  one  to 
meet  him;  he  had  not  informed  the  family  of 
his  advent.  Caroline  in  a  brief  letter  had  told 
him  almost  more  than  he  had  wanted  to  know; 
his  imagination  could  well  supply  the  details, 
the  attendant  circumstances,  and  how  the  dif- 
ferent Peels  would  face,  or  avoid  facing,  the 
crisis.  He  was  in  a  sombre  rage,  but  on  a  quite 
different  account.  He  felt,  as  Caroline  had 
suspected,  aloof  from  this  unexpected  and  yet 
not,  after  all,  surprising  event ;  he  was  already, 
and  had  always  been,  so  separate  from  his 
family;  and  now  that  he  was  earning  a  modest 
living,  the  separation  was  merely  more  com- 
plete. He  could  dispense  with  the  allowance 
made  him  by  his  father,  he  could  dispense  with 
their  company.  Of  course,  if  they  needed  him, 
he  was  ready  to  help.  And  there  was  Caroline ; 
he  did  care  deeply,  though  irritably,  for  her. 
He  felt  something  of  the  Cathy-Heathcliffe 
quality  in  their  affection,  leaving  out  most  of 
172 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


what  was  sexual  in  that  classic  and  romantic 
love.  He  sometimes  hated  Caroline,  he  even 
sometimes  feared  her  for  what  she  might  do 
or  say  to  sap  his  energy,  faith,  and  confidence ; 
he  came  near  to  morally  condemning  her;  and 
yet  he  knew  that  always,  whether  repressed, 
ignored  and  neglected,  or  cherished,  their  affec- 
tion would  survive  most  other  loves,  and  re- 
main until  he  died  one  of  the  most  real  emo- 
tions in  his  life. 

He  found  his  mother  and  his  sisters  sitting 
together  in  the  drawing-room.  Lady  Peel  was 
writing  letters;  Caroline  was  reading,  Stella 
was  wandering  uneasily  about  the  room.  As 
he  opened  the  door  she  turned  towards  him 
and  stood,  startled  for  a  moment  into  silence. 

"Well,  my  dear  boy,  I'm  glad  you've  come," 
said  his  mother,  holding  out  her  left  hand  to 
him.  "Your  father's  staying  to-night  in  town 
— did  you  see  him,  by  the  way?" 

"No.  He  hasn't  been  to  the  house  to-day." 
He  sat  down  far  from  any  of  them. 

"Did  you  have  dinner  on  the  train T"  Caro- 
line asked. 

"Yes."  It  was  characteristic  of  Eoden  that 
he  asked  no  questions;  that  he  suffered  un- 
willingly the  questions  of  others.  Some  people 
173 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


make  statements  which  are  really  questions; 
Roden's  questions  were  almost  always  state- 
ments. He  unconsciously  hated  to  betray  igno- 
rance of  any  kind ;  and  it  was  true  that  he  did 
know  a  great  many  things  by  some  other 
agency  than  verbal  information. 

"1  suppose  we've  got  this  house  till  Sep- 
tember," he  presently  remarked. 

"Yes.  Hal  will  be  in  town,  though,  most  of 
the  time.  We're  sending  Amy  away  at  once. 
You'll  come  for  your  holiday,  won't  you, 
Rodent"  said  Lady  Peel. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  young  man  asked, 
"Where's  Francis?" 

Stella,  still  moving  about,  replied,  "Nobody's 
seen  him  since  lunch  time  yesterday." 

Roden  accepted  this  news  unmoved,  and 
Lady  Peel  broke  in:  "Poor  boy,  he  was  awfully 
upset  when  Hal  told  him  he  couldn't  go  to  Cam- 
bridge. I'm  feeling  very  worried  about  him, 
but  what  can  we  do?" 

"I  expect  he'll  turn  up  to-morrow,"  said  her 
elder  son  gruffly,  and  she  resumed  her  writing. 

Caroline,  feeling  unable  to  read  any  more, 

and  disliking  the  quality  of  the  silence,  began 

to  talk  in  her  clear,  even  tones:  "Hal  is  seeing 

about  selling  the  house  and  part  of  the  furni- 

174 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


ture  at  once ;  you  see,  in  a  small  house  we  shan't 
need  anything  like  so  much.  He's  going  to  try 
and  find  a  quite  tiny  house  or  a  large  flat  in 
some  cheap  part  of  London,  or  in  one  of  the 
least  horrible  suburbs." 

"That  reminds  me,  Roden,  darling;  shall 
you  want  a  room  in  our  new  establishment,  or 
do  you  think  you'd  rather  be  on  your  own?" 

"I'll  think  it  over  and  tell  you,  mother,"  he 
replied.  "I  suppose  there's  no  immediate  need 
to  decide.  If  I  take  rooms  I  might  have  some 
of  the  furniture." 

"The  car  is  going  to  be  sold,"  said  Stella 
suddenly,  almost  viciously;  it  was  clear  that 
she  knew,  by  observation  or  intuition,  how 
some  of  the  happiest  moments  of  Roden's 
peace-time  existence  had  been  spent  in  driving 
the  car.  He  made  no  answer,  staring  sombre- 
ly past  her,  as  though  deliberately  ignoring  her 
presence.  Caroline,  quivering  to  the  atmos- 
phere, hoped  that  she  would  not  be  fated  to 
live  at  close  quarters  with  both  Stella  and  Rod- 
en;  the  latter  provoked  all  the  former's  latent 
hysteria  and  malice ;  and  he  could  not  ordinar- 
ily be  considered,  on  his  own  account,  a  gay 
companion. 

"How's  work!"  she  asked  him. 
175 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


''Work's  all  right.  It's  interesting.  There's 
plenty  to  do.  Oh,  I  say,  Cabs,  I  met  Sexton 
to-day  in  Piccadilly — and  he's  coming  down  on 
Wednesday  for  a  night." 

"Oh,  good!"  she  breathed,  and  the  tension 
of  the  atmosphere  seemed  to  be  a  little  relieved 
by  the  news.  Stella  still  moved  about  the  room. 

"Stella,  do  for  heaven's  sake  sit  down,  or  at 
least  stand  still!"  Lady  Peel  cried  in  exas- 
peration. But  she  herself  rose  after  a  little 
while  and  began  wandering  about  to  collect  her 
book  and  tortoise-shell  spectacles  preparatory 
to  going  to  bed. 

"She's  very  calm,"  her  son  remarked  when 
at  last  she  had  gone. 

"She  has  been  all  the  time,"  his  elder  sister 
answered.  "It's  extraordinary."  Glancing  at 
Roden  as  she  spoke  she  saw  his  opaque  dark 
eyes  fix  themselves  on  their  companion  who 
stood  by  the  fireless  hearth,  looking  at  herself 
in  the  mirror  over  it.  Caroline  saw  that  he  was 
about  to  say  something  of  importance,  and 
waited  in  suspense.  His  words  were: 

"I  wish  you'd  mind  your  own  business, 
Stella,  and  not  make  such  a  damned  little  fool 
of  yourself." 

He  spoke  deliberately,  controlling  his  cold 
176 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


anger,  scarcely  admitting  that  it  was  anger  he 
felt.  The  girl  was  just  as  he  had  remembered 
her :  his  mental  picture  was  in  every  detail  cor- 
rect; she  was  insignificant  and  yet  not  quite 
harmless,  an  insect  with  a  sting:  a  pretty  in- 
sect with  irridescent  wings.  She  was  perfectly 
all  right  if  only  she'd  let  one  alone.  0  God, 
these  girls  who  meddled! 

Stella  had  faced  him ;  they  both  saw  that  she 
was  pale.  "I  haven't,"  she  said  slowly. 

"You  have  indeed.  What's  the  good  of  try- 
ing to  mess  up  things  between  Grace  and  met 
You  can't  do  it  and  it  only  makes  me  angry." 

Stella  turned  towards  Caroline,  as  though 
she  were  judge.  "I  only  tried  to  appeal  to  her 
better  feelings!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  know, 
Cabs,  you  said  you  thought  she'd  give  him  up 
if  it  was  for  his  good.  Well,  it  is  for  his  good, 
isn't  it?" 

Before  Caroline  could  answer,  Eoden  re- 
torted: "Who  knows  except  me  what's  for  my 
good?  Don't  try  and  drag  Cabs  in.  It's  over 
now.  I  won't  say  any  more,  only  for  God's 
sake  in  future  keep  your  fingers  out  of  my 
pie."  He  found  that  his  anger  had  melted 
away.  Stella  looked  forlorn,  a  rather  pitiful 
little  insect. 

177 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"Roden,  you're  horrid,  you're  cruel!"  she 
exclaimed,  turning  away.  "And  I  wasn't  try- 
ing to  drag  Cabs  into  it — only  she's  fair.  You 
don't  care  for  anybody.  Oh,  you're  horrible  to 
me."  She  began  to  cry,  leaning  her  head  on 
one  supporting  hand. 

He  got  up  and  patted  her  shoulder.  "Don't 
cry.  It's  all  over:  it's  forgotten  .  .  .I'm  sorry 
if  I  was  brutal  .  .  .  you  silly  little  thing." 

The  scorn  in  his  voice,  finally  superseding 
the  kindness,  stung  her.  She  swept  round  to 
her  sister:  "Isn't  he  horrible  to  me?  I  did  it 
because  I  mind  what  happens  to  him.  You 
both  think  I  care  for  nobody  but  myself — I 
know  you  do.  He  hates  me." 

"What  did  you  do?"  Caroline  mildly  en- 
quired. 

"Where  is  the  letter — have  you  got  it!" 
Stella  cried.  "Give  it  to  me,  I'll  burn  the 
stupid  thing." 

"Grace  tore  it  up  to-day,  after  she'd  shown 
it  to  me,"  said  Roden. 

"0,  I  wish  I'd  never  written  it— I  wish  I'd 
never  seen  her  at  all.  Then  perhaps  it  wouldn't 
be  so  bad;  I  wouldn't  picture  it  all  so."  Stella 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  with  short 
steps,  the  tears  drying  on  her  small  face,  while 
178 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


her  companions  watched  her  uneasily.  "I  can't 
think  of  anything  else — not  even  now  we've 
lost  our  money.  Boden,  why  do  you  hate  me 
so?" 

"I  don't  hate  you." 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  don't  care  what  becomes 
of  me."  There  was  half  a  question  in  her  tone, 
the  dawning  of  a  question  in  the  eyes  she  fixed 
on  him,  standing  before  him  with  her  back  to 
Caroline.  Caroline  could  hear  the  inflexion  but 
could  not  see  the  expression;  she  could  only 
see  Boden 's  pale,  dogged  face,  his  opaque  mi- 
revealing  eyes,  as  he  replied: 

"My  dear  Stella,  you  know  what  I'm  like  to 
all  the  family,  to  everyone — it's  not  only  to 
you.  I'm  unsociable  and  crude  and  all  the 
things  mother  says.  Cabs  will  tell  you  how  I 
treat  her — how  I  swear  at  her  when  we're 
alone.  Don't  I,  Cabs?  But  of  course,  I  mind 
what  happens  to  you  all.  Don't  I,  Cabs!" 

"Yes,"  she  agreed  softly. 

Stella  stood  mute  and  motionless,  her  eyes 
fastened  on  her  brother's  face.  Then  she  said, 
as  though  she  had  scarcely  heard  his  words: 
"Yes,  that's  it.  It's  Cabs  you  like,  next  to 
Grace  Draper  .  .  .  Mother  says  if  you  love 
Grace  of  course  you  must  marry  her.  Well,  do 
179 


THE    SINGING    CAPTIVES 


...  I  don't  care!  I  shall  be  married  myself, 
soon,  shan't  I,  Cabs?"  She  turned,  with  the 
defiance  in  her  voice  translated  into  her  move- 
ment, and  looked  at  her  sister,  who  replied 
coolly  yet  pitifully: 

"Shall  you,  Stella?" 

Eoden,  feeling  that  perhaps  he  had  been 
rather  unnecessarily  unkind  at  the  opening  of 
the  interview,  put  out  a  hand  to  touch  the 
younger  girl's  shoulder.  She  withdrew  sharply. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "It 
would  make  me  cry  again.  Leave  me  alone — I 
wanted  to  look  at  Caroline." 

"Here  I  am,"  the  latter  remarked. 

"You're  not  happy,  any  fool  can  see  that," 
said  Stella  thoughtfully,  as  though  a  whole 
world  of  implications  and  realisations  was 
newly  opened  to  her  eyes.  "And  I'm  not 
happy,  and  I  suppose  Hal  can't  be.  Perhaps 
Roden  and  Grace  will  be."  She  turned  yet 
again  to  the  young  man.  "Well,  I  hope  I'll 
never  see  you  being  happy,  that's  all.  I  think 
I  might  forget  all  about  you  if  I  never  saw 
you — you  and  your  Grace.  I'd  rather  not  have 
you  at  all  than  in  little  bits,  like  Cabs  does — 
much  rather—"  she  paused,  then  adding:  "I'm 
180 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


going  to  bed,"  she  went  straight  out,  and  left 
the  pair  staring  at  each  other. 

1  'She's  hysterical,"  Caroline  said  presently, 
"she's  had  several  outbreaks  about  you  lately 
and  I  couldn't  make  it  out  at  all.  What  was  in 
the  letter?" 

"It  was  what  you'd  call  high-falutiny  Rod- 
en  answered. 

Presently  Caroline  pursued:  "I  think  she 
must  be  rather  in  love  with  you,  though  it 
seems  a  dreadful  thing  to  say.  Poor  Stella — 
not  happy  either  .  .  .  Did  you  know,  Roden, 
that  mother  was  in  love  with  some  one  else 
when  she  married  Hal?" 

"Oh,  was  she?" 

"That's  why  she  always  rushed  about  so. 
She  loved  him  for  a  long  time,  like  I  do 
Gerald." 

"One  can  love  hundreds  of  people  in  hun- 
dreds of  different  ways.  Has  mother  really 
come  round  to  my  marrying  Grace?" 

"Yes,  more  or  less.  Are  you  doing  well, 
Roden?" 

"Fairly  well.  I  like  the  work— I'm  general 

bottle-washer  as  well  as  artist.   I  interviewed 

a  man  to-day  who  knew  ten   times   as   much 

about  the  inside  of  a  car  as  I  do,  and  by  the 

181 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


time  he  left  I'd  learnt  as  much  as  he  knew.  He 
thought  I  was  a  brightish  young  fellow."  He 
grinned. 

"When  shall  you  get  married?" 

"About  Christmas,  I  think,  if  we  can  find 
some  rooms.  Grace  wants  to  go  on  working. 
She  has  to  dispose  of  her  old  hag  of  a  mother, 
first;  I  won't  take  her  on,"  said  the  young  man 
with  calm  ruthlessness. 

"You'll  do  well,"  said  Caroline  presently, 
with  a  familiar  feeling  of  vicarious  pride  and 
certainty  of  success. 

"So  would  you,  if  you'd  settle  down  to  it," 
said  Roden. 

"Settle  down  to  what?" 

"Anything — marriage,  enjoying  yourself, 
work,  love — ordinary  life,  in  fact.  Don't  stand 
aside  and  be  so  critical." 

"That's  life  to  me;  just  as  much  as  the  use 
of  my  five  senses  is.  To  be  critical  is  as  in- 
evitable as  to  see  and  hear.  You  wouldn't  by 
choice  lose  one  of  your  senses." 

"It's  my  turn  to  quote  scripture  this  time," 
the  young  man  said  almost  gaily;  "  'If  thy  eye 
offend  thee.'  Poverty  may  do  the  trick,  Cabs." 

"You  mean  adversity  may  bring  out  my 
finer  nature,"  she  returned  with  irony.  "I'm 
182 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


more  likely  simply  to  get  red  hands  from  wash- 
ing up  or  a  rough  forefinger  from  sewing.  Rod- 
en,  I  shall  have  to  darn!  Mother  never  will. 
And  if  Stella  does  get  married  I  shall  be  alone 
with  Francis  and  mother  and  Hal.  What  will 
it  be  like?"  In  spite  of  her  dismay  at  the  image 
thus  conjured  up,  she,  too,  was  almost  gay.  Rod- 
en,  when  he  did  not  depress  her,  often  made  her 
gay,  communicating  to  her  temporarily  some 
of  his  relish  for  existence. 

" There  are  so  many  things  to  do,"  he  said; 
"it  won't  be  like  anything  else.  You  can  make 
it  quite  different  from  anything  else  that  ever 
happened.  Don't  you  see  that  the  fund  of 
possibilities  is  huge?" 

"I  see  the  possibility  of  becoming  domestic," 
she  answered.  "It's  all  very  well  to  joke,  but 
it  is,  it  must  be,  horrible  to  be  poor." 

"I  wasn't  joking.  You'll  have  enough  to  eat 
and  a  bed  to  sleep  in  and — if  there  isn't  a  coal 
strike — warmth.  On  that  basis  one  can  rear 
an  immense  erection.  0  Cabs,  our  life  is  only 
just  beginning." 

"Don't  say  that,  Roden— Oh,  don't!  I  com- 
fort myself  that  I've  got  through  twenty-seven 
years." 

"Oh,  you're  abnormal." 
183 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


''So  I  thought.  But  all  I  can  say  is,  Hugh 
and  Stella  and  mother  must  be  abnormal  too. 
And  what  about  Hal? — his  games  with  money 
may  have  been  a  distraction,  just  like  mother 's. 
As  mother  says,  one  must  do  something  to  pass 
the  time." 

Roden  growled.  "We're  beginning  again. 
Same  old  song!  Let's  go  to  bed." 

She  took  his  arm  as  they  left  the  room,  con- 
scious of  his  affection  for  her,  despite  their 
differences;  content,  unlike  Stella,  to  "have  him 
in  litle  bits."  He  would  never  go  farther  from 
her  than  he  now  was,  his  place  in  her  was  fixed; 
and  she  felt  the  same  security  in  him.  She 
thought:  Some  of  the  best  things  are  unalter- 
able, too. 


184 


xm. 

BEFORE  lunch  on  Tuesday — a  warm,  sunless 
day — Francis  returned.  Caroline,  sitting  in  the 
garden  with  a  book,  saw  him  come  up  the  steep 
drive  with  his  usual  jaunty  step;  hut  when  he 
drew  nearer  she  saw  that  he  did  not  look  well. 

" Where's  everybody ?"  he  asked,  as  though 
to  forestall  her  questions. 

" Stella's  playing  tennis  at  the  Grange; 
mother's  gone  over  to  lunch  with  the  Lever- 
sons.  Where  have  you  been?" 

"Where's  Hal?"  was  all  he  said. 

"In  town,  of  course,  seeing  ahout  selling  the 
house  and  getting  a  job." 

"Getting  a  job?"  Francis  echoed. 

"Well,  you  didn't  suppose  he  was  going  to 
sit  still  and  do  nothing,  did  you?  What  have 
you  been  doing? — we've  been  worried  about 
you." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  answered,  but  that  was  all; 
yet  his  tone  was  not  casual.  He  stood  uncer- 
tainly at  his  impatient  sister's  side,  his  chin 
raised  as  ever.  His  glance  went  to  the  house, 
185 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


to  the  view,  everywhere  but  to  her  face.  She 
was  moved  by  his  look  of  weariness  and  by  his 
hesitating  pose,  and  yet,  as  usual,  vaguely  re- 
pelled. She  repeated  sharply:  "Tell  me  what 
you've  been  doing." 

"Walking,  mostly."  He  moved  indetermin- 
ately towards  the  house. 

"You're  very  secretive,"  said  Caroline. 

"You're  very  inquisitive,"  he  retorted. 

She  began  to  be  sorry,  then,  she  had  not  con- 
trolled her  impatience.  She  had  the  impres- 
sion, too  late,  that,  as  the  first  person  to  en- 
counter him  on  his  return,  she  had  held  the  key 
to  something  it  was  important  to  know.  And 
besides  this  vague,  unformulated  feeling  was 
the  reproach  of  common  sense ;  for  to  antagon- 
ise one  of  the  people  with  whom  she  was  to 
share  close  quarters  and  poor  circumstances 
was  short-sighted. 

"Interest  does  verge  on  inquisitiveness," 
she  remarked,  "but  in  this  case  I  think  it  real- 
ly is  interest." 

Standing  half  turned  away  from  her,  the 
boy  replied:  "You'll  only  sneer  if  I  tell  you: 
you're  so  damned  superior." 

"Sneer" — what  a  horrible  word,  what  a  de- 
grading suggestion  it  carried!   Was  this  how 
186 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


she  appeared  to  her  young  brother?  Was  this 
the  total  effect  of  her  conscious  ironic  aloof- 
ness, her  critical  fastidious  attitude — the  effect 
of  a  sneer?  What  was  the  use  of  her  experi- 
ence, her  analysis,  her  introspection  her  vaunt- 
ed sensitiveness  if  she  was  simply  a  person 
who  sneered  at  others,  and  so  forfeited  their 
confidence?  As  at  her  mother 's  careless  words 
in  Monsal  Dale,  she  felt  the  blood  withdrawing 
from  her  cheeks,  from  her  neck — withdrawing 
in  a  chill  shiver  down  her  spine.  For  an  in- 
stant she  had  seen  herself  from  the  outside; 
and  the  vision  was  exceedingly  unpleasant. 
She  spoke,  not  impulsively  but  deliberately: 

"I  won't,  Francis;  I  promise  I  won't.  I 
know  I'm  odious  and  supercilious — yes,  'damn- 
ed superior';  but  I'll  try  not  to  be  as  bad  in 
future.  And  I'm  not  feeling  like  that  now.  It's 
not  even  curiosity;  it's  just  that  I  have  a  na- 
tural interest  in  why  you  left  here  without  a 
word  and  stayed  away  two  nights.  But  if  you 
don't  want  to  tell  me,  don't.  I  don't  deserve  to 
to  be  told  things  if  I  sneer." 

Perhaps  the  sincerity  of  her  speech  struck 

him;  at  all  events,  Francis  took  off  his  hat  and 

sat  down  on  the  grass  with  his  arms  round  his 

knees.    "This  is  what  I  actually  did,"  he  said. 

187 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"I  went  to  Castleton  on  Sunday,  and  prowled 
about  there  all  evening.  It's  a  topping  place, 
Cabs! — the  spookiest  hole  you've  ever  struck. 
I  explored  Cavedale  and  Pindale  and  all  about. 
Of  course  there  were  a  good  many  people,  it  be- 
ing Sunday.  I  slept  that  night  at  the  pub  there. 
Then,  yesterday,  I  walked  to  Edale.  It  was  rip- 
pingly  desolate  and  lonely  up  there.  I  slept  last 
night  at  a  pub,  and  caught  a  very  early  train 
here." 

' '  That 's  what  you  '  actually  did, '  ' '  quoted  his 
sister  thoughtfully,  not  looking  at  him. 

The  boy  glanced  at  her  quickly,  and  ex- 
claimed: "I  will  say  you  have  something  to  be 
cocky  about ;  for  you  are  clever,  Cabs. ' ' 

Caroline  smiled  with  real  pleasure  at  this  art- 
less tribute,  and  waited.  There  was  a  long  sil- 
ence. Francis  lit  a  cigarette  and  changed  his 
position  several  times.  Presently  he  glanced  at 
his  watch  and  said:  ''Thank  the  Lord  it's  near- 
ly one.  Will  Stella  be  in  to  feed  I ' ' 

"I  don't  think  so.    No,  I  know  she  won't." 

But  even  this  assurance  of  prolonged  priv- 
acy produced  no  further  revelation.  The  girl 
perceived  that  she  would  have  to  "pump"  him. 
She  began  to  talk  at  random  of  their  plans — 
the  sort  of  house  that  Hal  was  going  to  look 
188 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


for;  Stella's  expressed  intention  of  marrying 
soon  ("I  suppose  that  means  Lakenbridge ;  I 
like  him,  he's  a  sport,"  was  Francis*  com- 
ment) ;  their  mother's  predominant  anxiety 
that  she  wouldn't  have  sufficient  occupation; 
her  new  craze,  inaugurated  by  to-day's  visit  to 
an  "occultist"  friend,  for  theosophy;  and  their 
father's  hopes  for  the  post  of  secretary  to  one 
of  the  companies  of  which  he  had  been  a  di- 
rector. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Francis,  gazing  past  her 
at  the  view,  "Hal  will  wangle  me  a  stamp- 
licking  job  in  the  city." 

"I  expect  that's  what  he  means  to  do — why, 
didn't  he  say  anything  about  it  to  you  on  Sun- 
day?" 

"Yes.  He  did."  There  was  some  hesitation 
in  the  reply. 

"Is  there  anything  you  fancy  more?  I'm 
sure  Hal  will  agree  to  anything  sensible.  He's 
not  a  bit  unreasonable,  ever." 

"It  would  be  stupid  not  to  make  the  most  of 
having  a  parent  in  the  business  line.  I  can't 
say  I  want  to  farm,  and  I'm  not  good  enough 
to  become  a  professional  cricketer." 

"Are  those  the  only  alternatives T" 

"Well,  there  isn't  much  choice  for  a  chap 
189 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


with  no  particular  education  and  no  training 
at  all,  is  there?  The  university  is  supposed  to 
fit  one  for  lots  of  things,  but  I  never  heard  that 
a  public  school  did." 

It  might  have  been  Caroline  herself  speak- 
ing, so  cool  and  sceptical  were  the  tones,  so 
nonchalantly  fluent  the  words ;  but  she  was  too 
closely  occupied  in  trying  to  penetrate  her 
brother's  mind  to  perceive  his  likeness  to  her- 
self. "Yes,"  she  said,  "if  you  can  bear  the 
idea  of  an  office,  that  is  the  obvious  thing  to  do, 
with  Hal  on  the  spot  and  knowing  all  about  the 
city.  You're  passable  at  maths,  aren't  you?" 

"Moderate."  There  was  a  defiance  in  his 
utterance  of  the  word  out  of  all  proportion  to 
its  import,  and  the  girl  glanced  at  him  in  sur- 
prise. She  did  not  know,  probably  he  himself 
did  not  know,  that  it  was  a  defiance  thrown  at 
the  dejection  which  he  had  set  himself  to 
ignore,  and  which  the  image  of  himself  on  an 
office  stool  brought  to  life  again.  With  some 
dim  inkling  of  this,  Caroline  exclaimed  softly: 

"Poor  Francis." 

"Don't  pity  me,  for  heaven's   sake,   Cabs! 

It's  no  worse  for  me  than  for  you  or  anyone. 

It's  hardest  on  poor  old  Hal.   Only  I  do  damn 

well  wish  I'd  grown  up  five  years  earlier — I 

190 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


don't  mean  so  as  to  avoid  this  crash,  but  so  as 
to  have  been  in  the  war.  I  do  envy  that  blighter 
Roden." 

"I  know  you  do.  But  you  needn't  resent 
pity,  Francis.  There's  nothing  despicable  in 
people  who  care  for  you  being  sorry  for  you — 
they  can't  help  it,  in  fact.  You're  sorry  for 
Hal." 

"Yes,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him  see  it.  And 
look  here,  Cabs,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  let  on 
to  Hal — or  to  mother,  if  it  comes  to  that — that 
I've  been  grousing." 

"You  haven't  been  grousing.  But  I  won't 
talk  to  them  about  you  at  all." 

"Oh,  you  can,  just  about  what  you  think," 
he  answered.  '  *  Hal  may  ask  your  advice  about 
me — I  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

"I  should." 

"Well,  surely  one  of  the  things  which  makes 
you  look  down  on  the  family  is  because  you've 
got  your  head  screwed  on  tight.  Hal  knows 
that,  trust  him.  By  the  way,  where 's  the  Mailf 
I  must  see  how  Essex  is  doing." 

Caroline  groaned  inwardly  at  this  interven- 
tion of  country  cricket  in  the  course  of  such  a 
promising  conversation, 

"When  will  Hal  be  back  here?"  Francis 
191 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


asked  when  he  had  assured  himself  that  his 
faith  in  the  Essex  team  was  not  proved  a  mis- 
taken one. 

"I  don't  know  if  he'll  come  back  at  all.  We 
have  the  house  till  September  15th.  He  hopes, 
by  then,  to  have  got  his  future  more  or  less 
settled,  and  a  new  house  found." 

"What  about  Roden?" 

' '  He  came  down  for  the  night  yesterday :  he 
had  to  go  back  early  this  morning.  He's  prob- 
ably going  to  be  married  at  Christmas." 

* '  To  the  girl  mother  calls  alternately  Paper, 
Caper,  and  Taper?"  His  smile  showed  revived 
spirits.  "Any  news  from  Evelyn!" 

"Yes,  mother  had  a  letter  thisi  morning; 
she'd  written  to  him  on  Sunday,  and  he  seems 
to  have  seen  Hal  yesterday.  It  was  a  very 
nice  letter,  but  very  non-committal." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"I  mean  he  didn't  offer  to  share  his  last 
crust  with  us.  I  have  a  feeling,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  that  Evelyn  had  already  had  a  womanly 
intuition  several  weeks  ago  that  he'd  better 
prepare  a  cosy  little  raft  for  himself.  He's 
been  distinctly  off-handish,  though  quite  polite, 
of  course,  to  both  mother  and  Stella,  the  week- 
ends he's  been  down  here." 
192 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"Oh,  I  hadn't  noticed.  There's  the  gong." 
It  was  an  apparently  quite  normal  Francis 
who  sat  down  to  lunch  at  Caroline's  right 
hand,  in  spite  of  the  traces  of  fatigue  in  his 
face.  His  sister  could  not,  however,  quite  put 
aside  her  idea  that  there  was  something  vital 
he  had  kept  from  her  in  speaking  of  his  flight 
from  home.  The  phrase  "this  is  what  I  actu- 
ally did"  had  struck  her,  with  its  implication 
of  information  withheld.  She  had  spoken  the 
truth  in  saying  that  it  was  interest  as  opposed 
to  curiosity  that  made  her  enquire  into  his 
actions;  and  as  far  as  these  two  emotions  can 
be  separated,  they  were  separated  in  Caroline 
Peel.  She  was  not  an  inquisitive  person;  she 
had  not  that  maddening,  and  yet  so  human, 
supposedly  feminine,  defect.  But  she  was  not 
too  supercilious  nor  too  self-centred  to  be  in- 
terested in  anything  people  voluntarily  told 
her;  and  in  this  particular  case,  the  events  of 
the  week-end  had  combined  to  put  her  in  a 
state  of  unusual  watchfulness.  She  was  on  the 
look-out  for  revelations;  she  expected  to  be 
surprised ;  her  attitude  to  her  whole  family  had 
undergone  a  very  radical  change.  She  was, 
moreover,  piqued  by  Francis's  reserve.  He 
was,  after  all,  merely  a  schoolboy,  even  if  not 
193 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


quite  such  a  dense  one  as  she  had  supposed; 
she  had  gone  as  far  as  to  apologise  to  him  for 
part  of  her  conduct  in  the  past,  and  to  solicit 
his  willing  confidence;  who  was  he,  her  junior 
by  ten  years,  to  be  stubborn  in  face  of  these 
conciliatory  gestures?  He  evidently  did  not 
realise  his  advantage  in  having  her  for  a  sister! 
Her  pity  for  him  began  to  melt  away  before  a 
recurrence  of  familiar  irritation. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  better  go  to  town  in  case 
Hal  wants  me?"  the  boy  asked  her  when  the 
maid  had  left  the  room.  "I  might  be  useful; 
besides,  he  might  want  me  to  interview  some 
one." 

"I  don't  think  that's  very  likely,  in  August," 
she  answered.  "But  I  dare  say  you  could  make 
yourself  quite  useful,  and  help  in  house-hunt- 
ing." It  came  to  her,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  it 
was  unkind  to  have  let  her  father  go  all  alone 
to  London,  to  tired,  dusty,  empty  Kensington, 
when  he  was  in  trouble  and  about  to  undertake 
the  distasteful  and  arduous  task  of  dealing 
with  the  practical  side  of  their  situation.  "I 
might  come  too,"  she  added  impulsively;  "we 
could  look  at  houses  together,  and  discard  the 
hopeless  ones.  Then  Hal  and  mother  can  in- 
spect the  residue.  What  a  good  idea!  And 
194 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


there  '11  be  a  fearful  lot  of  turning  out  of  things 
to  do  at  the  house,  and  packing  up.  Hal  meant 
us  to  do  it  in  September ;  but  it  would  be  much 
better  to  start  at  once.  It  might  be  quite  fun. 
Eoden's  still  there,  you  see."  Francis  not  re- 
plying, a  new  thought  occurred  to  her,  and  she 
went  on:  "Or  did  you  like  the  idea  of  being 
alone  there  with  Hal,  without  any  females  at 
all?" 

He  looked,  for  a  moment,  embarrassed,  at 
his  plate,  but  finally  met  her  glance,  and  said: 
"I  had  some  sort  of  an  idea  like  that." 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me.  Well,  I  won't  butt 
in."  She  could  not,  however,  altogether  hide 
the  fact  that  she  was  crestfallen. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  nasty,  Cabs." 

"I  know  you  don't,  and  it's  not  nasty.  I'd 
much  rather  you  said.  I'll  keep  to  the  original 
plan.  But  do  go  up  yourself." 

"D'you  think  it  would  annoy  Hal  to  have 
me  buzzing  round?" 

"Of  course  not.  Why  should  it?  On  the  con- 
trary, he'll  be  pleased." 

Caroline    was    beginning   to    perceive    that 

Francis  attached  some  special  significance  to 

this  plan.   "Had  you  ever  had  any  idea,"  she 

presently  asked  him,  "that  .   .  .  things  might 

195 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


go  wrong — I  mean  that  our  fortunes  weren't 
secure?" 

"Good  Lord!  no;  not  the  slightest." 

"Mother  had,  of  course.  There  Ve  often  been 
scares,  she  says.  I  suppose  Hal's  hung  over 
the  brink  of  ruin  several  times,  and  always 
just  recovered." 

"It  never  occurred  to  me,"  said  Francis, 
flushing  a  little,  "that  he  wasn't  as  safe  as — 
as  the  Bank  of  England." 

"Nor  to  me.  Yes,  that's  exactly  what  he  did 
seem:  a  sort  of  monument  of  safety  and  re- 
spectability." 

"But  you   don't   suppose — you  don't  mean 

— ?"  the  boy  broke  off,  with  a  dark  flush 
suffusing  his  shallow,  small-featured  face,  fix- 
ing on  his  sister  a  startled  and  rather  shamed 
gaze.  "I  say,"  he  added,  looking  away  again, 
"it's  beastly  to  talk  like  this !  I  feel  like  a  crim- 
inal." 

Here,  thought  Caroline,  is  some  schoolboy 
taboo  I'm  not  familiar  with.  "There's  nothing 
disloyal  discussing  what's  a  fact,"  she  pointed 
out,  conscious  of  sententiousness. 

"Disloyal!   That's  it!"  he  echoed.   "That's 
what  I've  been.   And  you  seemed  just  now  to 
be  trying  to  say  that  Hal  had  got  something  to 
196 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


be  ashamed  of." 

"Did  I?  No,  I  didn't.  What  do  you  mean? 
There's  nothing  dishonourable  in  losing  your 
money  that  I  know  of." 

"Well,  you  said  he'd  seemed  to  be  a  monu- 
ment of  respectability  and  something  or  other." 

"Oh,  goodness!  I  didn't  mean  anything  by 
that,  except  that  I'd  looked  on  him  as  solid 
and  he  turned  out — or  rather  that  I  looked  on 
him  as  hardly  human,  and  he's  turned  out  to 
be  very  human  indeed." 

"Oh,  was  that  all?  Still,  I  don't  much  care 
for  talking  about  him  behind  his  back.  You 
see,  I  feel  I've  behaved  .  .  .  disloyally  already 
in  running  away  like  that,  as  though  I  couldn't 
face  the  music.  Exactly  as  if  it  wasn't  twenty 
times  worse  for  him  than  for  anyone  else." 

"Not  one  of  us  had  the  slightest  idea  why 
you'd  gone,  so  nobody  thought  badly  of  you. 
We  were  just  worried." 

"But  it  was  an  idiotic  way  to  behave,  if  not 
caddish.  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  Hal  noticed  if 
I  was  there  or  not;  but  still,  I  ought  to  have 
been  there,  if  you  see  what  I  mean." 

Caroline  nodded. 

"I  felt  as  if  I'd  been  knocked  silly,"  Francis 
went  on,  staring  about  in  the  effort  to  find 
197 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


words.    "As  if  the  bottom  had  been  knocked 
out  of  everything. " 

"Yes,"  said  his  sister,  "we'd  always  all  de- 
pended on  Hal  so  utterly  without  knowing  it." 

"Yes,  It  didn't  seem  as  if  things  could  go 
on.  And  then  Cambridge  being  biffed — that, 
on  top  of  the  surprise,  seemed  too  perfectly 
beastly  to  stick.  I  imagined  myself  cooped  up 
in  an  office  from  year's  end  to  year's  end,  do- 
ing frightfully  monotonous  work,  and  never 
seeing  life  or  having  any  sort  of  a  time  at  all, 
and  getting  a  wizened  old  clerk.  Well,  it  is  a 
pretty  foul  outlook,"  the  boy  ended,  with  a 
fresh  access  of  dejection.  Before  Caroline 
could  think  of  any  obvious  consolations  to 
offer,  he  pursued:  "Still,  there  it  is.  One's  got 
to  make  the  best  of  a  beastly  bad  job.  'Sno 
use  grousing.  I  was  a  perfect  young  ass  on 
Sunday — I  didn't  know  I  could  be  such  an 
idiot,  or  have  the  blue  devils  so  badly.  After  I'd 
tramped  about  in  Castleton  for  a  bit  I  bucked 
up.  A  squint  over  some  of  those  cliffs  settled 
me.  I  didn't  fancy  coming  home,  even 
then,  so  I  went  on  to  Edale.  However,  going 
to  sea  seemed  the  only  alternative,  so  I  came 
back." 

198 


THE   SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"Do  you  mean  you  chose  Castleton  because 
you  knew  there  were  precipices  J" 

"Don't  get  the  wind  up,  Cabs;  it's  all  over 
now.  You've  no  idea  what  I  felt  like:  all  the 
worst  moments  in  my  life  lumped  together.  I 
didn't  know  one  could  have  such  blues.  I 
couldn't  see  a  single  thing  that  made  life  worth 
living — the  sort  of  life  stamp-lickers  lead.  And 
yet  I  don't  believe  I'd  have  minded  anything 
like  so  much  if  the  crash  had  come  through 
some  one  else." 

"Through  mother,  for  instance?"  Caroline 
suggested.  "I  understand  that.  It  was  Hal 
letting  you  down  that  made  it  so  bad.  But 
there  he  still  is,  and  he  needs  you  more  than 
ever." 

"Yes,"  Francis  agreed,  "that  did  occur  to 
me — rather  late,  it's  true  ...  By  Jove,  Cabs, 
this  Wensleydale  is  a  first-class  cheese.  Here, 
I'll  carve  you  off  a  bit." 


199 


XIV. 

HUGH  SEXTON  was  walking  along  Piccadilly, 
unconscious  of  decisive  events  in  the  lives  of 
some  of  his  friends,  not  having  yet  received 
Caroline's  letter,  when  he  saw  Roden  Peel  ad- 
vancing with  his  odd,  attractive  walk  and  his 
self-absorbed  look,  slightly  dispelled  to-day, 
perhaps,  by  the  rich  summer  beauty  of  the 
town.  Instead  of  passing  blindly  by,  as  Hugh 
expected,  Roden  stopped  and  said:  "I  suppose 
you've  heard  the  news?" 
"No.  Your  news?" 

"The  family's.  Hal's  gone  smash— at  last." 
Through  his  groping,  but  not  astounded, 
consternation,  Hugh  discerned  in  the  other's 
final  words  a  tone  of  relief.  He  made  no  answer 
at  once;  to  ask  "Are  you  sure?"  would  be  im- 
pertinent; yet  this  was  his  impulse,  for  ru- 
mours of  ruin  circle  continually  round  the 
names  of  well-known  members  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  as  birds  encircle  the  head  of  Angus, 
the  Celtic  god;  and,  further,  he  knew  Roden 's 
taste  for  dramatic  occurrences  and  clearly  de- 
200 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


fined  situations.  "Do  they  all — do  Lady  Peel 
and  Caroline  know?"  he  enquired. 

"Yes.  I  got  a  letter  from  Cabs  this  morning 
—that's  how  I  know.  I'm  going  down  there 
this  afternoon  to  see  how  things  stand." 

There  was  silence.  Boden  stared  up  at  the 
roofs,  dazzling  as  metal  in  sunshine,  and  Hugh 
watched  him,  conscious  as  usual  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  power  which  Caroline's  brother  bore 
about  with  him,  indefinable  and  hard  to  trace 
to  its  source. 

"How  did  she  sound?" 

'  *  Oh, ' '  Roden  answered,  resting  his  eyes  for 
a  moment  on  Hugh's  face,  "I  couldn't  tell  you. 
She  only  said  that  the  whole  cat  was  out  of  the 
bag.  Well,  Hugh,  I  must  get  along.  Couldn't 
you  come  down  there  with  me?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  possibly  get  away  till 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  Tell  Cabs  I'll  come 
on  Wednesday,  if  that's  convenient." 

"Right.   What  a  mess!   Goodbye." 

Hugh,  deflected  by  the  news  from  his  course 
towards  a  tailor,  climbed  on  an  eastward-go- 
ing omnibus  for  purposes  of  meditation.  On 
top  of  Caroline  Peel's  emotional  bankruptcy 
came  this  disaster;  her  material  life  was  now 
in  ruins.  If  only  he  loved  her !  For  if  he  had 
201 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


loved  her,  however  vainly,  with  her  affection 
and  trust,  and  their  candid  intimacy  to  help, 
he  might  have  shown  her  the  way  to  a  new 
existence,  into  a  life  that  was  not  half  death. 
But  they  were  too  much  alike  to  love :  stricken 
as  they  were  with  the  same  disease.  Not  that 
he  believed  himself,  because  life-sick,  incapable 
of  emotion:  it  was  merely  that  Caroline  was 
not  steel  to  his  tinder.  Between  two  children 
of  such  a  tired  civilisation  only  friendship  was 
possible.  To  smite  or  to  draw  him  into  passion 
a  woman  would  have  to  combine  Caroline's 
delicacy  of  touch  and  fineness  of  perception 
with  courage,  enthusiasm,  and  a  bolder  out- 
look. 

That  this  fact  constituted  for  him  perhaps  a 
permanent  misfortune,  admiring  and  knowing 
her  as  he  did,  he  was  fully  aware;  but  for  her 
temporarily  it  constituted  a  misfortune  too,  be- 
cause sudden  crises  seem  to  demand  prompt 
action  and  definite  solutions.  For  Sir  Harold 
and  Lady  Peel,  drabness  might  supervene,  a 
disagreeable,  even  a  pathetic  fate ;  but  for  such 
a  fate  to  submerge  a  young,  attractive,  and  in- 
telligent woman  was  not  less  than  tragic  in  the 
eyes  of  a  young  man,  even  a  young  man  with 
no  closer  tie  than  affection.  He  knew  all  the 
202 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


Peels  too  well  to  have  an  indistinct  vision  of 
Caroline 's  future ;  without  deliberately  conjur- 
ing up  the  actualities  of  poverty,  he  reflected 
that  an  attitude  of  supercilious  toleration  of 
one's  family, — an  attitude  maintainable  in  a 
large  house,  on  large  means,  without  much  un- 
pleasantness,— tends  in  straitened  circum- 
stances and  at  close  quarters  to  be  transformed 
into  a  direct  emotion  of  dislike,  even  of 
hatred.  Hugh  foresaw  with  repulsion  the  in- 
creased sharpness  of  tongues  and  shortness  of 
tempers,  the  differences  of  opinion  quickly  de- 
generating into  bickering — foresaw  the  hostile 
bitter  women  that  Caroline  and  Stella  and 
Lady  Peel  would  become  in  restricted  space 
and  with  restricted  activities.  Sir  Harold  and 
Francis  would  escape;  Stella  would  probably 
escape;  and  some  escape  must  also  be  devised 
for  Caroline.  It  was  not,  after  all,  improb- 
able that  she  would  come  in  contact  with  a  man 
able  to  give  her  back  a  taste  for  life,  a  belief  in 
the  possibility  of  happiness;  but  if  this  event 
delayed  too  long  the  chance  would  have  passed 
by.  "I  think,"  said  Hugh  grimly  to  himself 
"I  shall  have  to  set  up  a  Sexton's  Matrimon- 
ial Agency." 

He  received  her  letter  next  morning;  it  told 
203 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


him  nothing  except  that  she  had  a  great  deal  to 
tell  him;  that  more  had  occurred  than  mere 
financial  ruin— he  smiled  a  little  at  the  proud, 
characteristic  "mere" — that  she  hoped  he 
would  come  that  week  to  visit  them.  Hugh  was 
a  little  surprised  at  her  reserve. 

She  met  him,  on  Wednesday,  at  Sheffield; 
and  together  they  drove  across  the  high  misty 
moors,  whose  austerity  was  enriched  but  not 
diminished  by  the  wine-glow  of  the  heather. 
It  was  a  wet  day,  and  having,  without  encoun- 
tering the  rest  of  the  family,  ensconced  them- 
selves in  a  small  sitting-room  with  a  fire,  they 
drew  close  to  the  hearth,  as  though  by  common 
consent  refusing  to  glance  at  the  grey,  rain- 
spattered  window.  Hugh,  with  his  customary 
unlugubrious  gravity,  kept  his  eyes  on  Caro- 
line's face  as  she  related  in  detail  the  story  of 
the  week-end.  He  leaned  by  the  mantel-piece, 
his  back  to  the  light  which  fell  pallidly  on  his 
companion's  countenance,  and  as  he  filled  his 
pipe  he  put  to  her  first  one  and  then  another 
question,  and  yet  a  third,  drawing  from  her 
mind  a  lantern  beam  upon  the  obscurer  aspects 
of  her  narrative,  the  obscurer  passages  of  the 
conversations  which  she  had  reproduced  for 
him.  He  had  spoken  no  word,  he  had  felt 
204 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


scarcely  a  pang  of  pity  during  her  narrative, 
so  closely  did  he  share  her  angle  of  vision,  so 
absorbed  was  he  in  her  revelations  and  her 
comments,  so  united  with  her  in  her  quiet  as- 
tonishment and  curious  pleasure.  There  was 
pleasure  for  Caroline  of  an  odd,  rarefied  and 
subtle  kind,  in  weighing,  examining  and  com- 
puting, for  their  value,  the  secrets  which  the 
crisis  had  brought  to  light;  the  secrets  were  a 
treasure,  rich  and  simple  and  complex  as  only 
human  secrets  can  be.  And  he  experienced, 
while  listening  and  speaking,  a  satisfaction 
that  was  almost  a  relief  from  pain,  in  perceiv- 
ing how  much  these  discoveries  meant  to  her, 
and  what  they  would  mean  in  time  to  come.  Of 
course,  much  of  their  charm  would  wear  thin 
with  familiarity  and  fade  with  time;  that  was 
where  art  had  the  grin  of  life, — because  life 
can  keep  the  lustre  of  its  jewels,  the  perfect 
poise  and  contour  of  its  grouped  figures,  only 
in  memory.  But,  passing  into  her  memory, 
these  discoveries  would  pass,  too,  into  Caro- 
line 's  inmost  existence,  and  become  there  an  in- 
separable part  of  that  conception  of  life  which  is 
life's  finest  product.  That  he  was  able  to  share 
with  her,  so  soon  after  the  events,  her  review 
of  them  was  part  of  the  privilege  of  being  her 
205 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


friend;  it  bestowed  on  him  also  the  power  of 
recalling  her  to  a  sense  of  their  importance 
when  and  if,  in  future  she  showed  signs  of  be- 
littling it ;  he  would,  in  some  sort,  stand  guard- 
ian to  the  faith  she  now,  by  implication,  pro- 
fessed; the  faith  that,  given  that  we  seem  to 
ourselves  to  exist,  how  we  exist  is  of  supreme 
importance.  He  did  not  mean  to  touch  at  once 
on  this,  the  more  transcendental  aspect  of  the 
situation;  there  would  be  time  and  opportun- 
ity for  that  when  they  returned  to  it,  a  little 
way  hence.  At  last  he  sat  down  opposite  her, 
and  said:  "Does  the  future  appal  you?" 

"Curiously  enough,  not  more  than  it  ever 
did,"  she  answered.  "Sometimes  I  think  it 
will  be  dreadful  being  cooped  up  with  the 
others;  but  I  don't  believe  that,  as  long  as 
we've  actually  got  enough  to  live  on,  I  shall 
mind  much.  It  isn't  as  if  Fd*  so  frightfully  en- 
joyed life  up  till  now.  T  want  to  try  and  get 
work;  I  can't  imagine  what  sort  for  I'm  not 
competent  to  do  anything;  but  as  there  won't 
be  any  margin  for  amusements,  it  will  be  rather 
grizzly  having  nothing  special  to  do." 

"But  you  haven't  ever  amused  yourself  very 
hilariously,"  the  young  man  pointed  out.  "Not 
that  I  don't  applaud  your  desire  to  work;  but 
206 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


you'll  still  know  all  the  same  people;  you'll  still 
want  to  see  them.'* 

"It's  rather  difficult.  Of  course  there  are 
one  or  two — Ann  for  instance — that  I  shall  be 
on  just  the  same  terms  with.  But  there  aren't 
very  many  people  that  one  can  see  without  giv- 
ing any  sort  of  return.  Of  course  the  'intellec- 
tuals,' "  she  added  with  a  smile,  "don't  expect 
to  be  asked  to  dinners  and  dances,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  can  go  to  their  parties  still.  But  all  the 
ordinary  friends  that  I  have  in  common  with 
Stella  and  mother — of  course  they  aren't 
friends  really — are  the  sort  of  people  who  as- 
sume that  one  has  money.  They  expect  one  to 
play  bridge  for  money,  and  go  to  Albert  Hall 
balls  and  race  meetings,  and  to  have  a  car;  or 
anyway  they  entail  taxis.  And  besides,  I  ex- 
pect a  lot  of  them  will  drop  us  like  hot  coals 
when  they  hear." 

"A  good  many,  surely,  will  ask  you  to  their 
parties  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

"I  doubt  it.  ...  You  know  I  regard  myself 
as  fairly  unsociable  compared  with  Stella  and 
mother ;  but  do  you  know,  Hugh,  I  was  looking 
at  my  engagement  book — the  early  part  of  this 
year»s — iast  night,  and  it's  amazing  how  much 
I  went  about.  It  seems  to  have  slipped  off  me 
207 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


like  water  off  a  duck's  back;  I  don't  feel  as  if 
I'd  had  a  giddy  season;  and  yet  there  were  at 
least  two  engagements  booked  every  day,  and 
often  more.  Well,  that  will  inevitably  stop. 
Even  if  people  ask  me  out  because  they  like  me, 
I  simply  shan't  have  the  clothes  to  go  in." 

"Do  you  know  at  all  accurately  what  your 
income  will  be?" 

"No.  I  don't  know  what  salaries  secretaries 
of  companies  get." 

"About  £800  or  £1,000.  And  youVe  none  of 
your  own  left?" 

"Mother  has  two  hundred  a  year.  So  far, 
she's  used  that  all  on  dressing.  Stella  and  I 
have  never  had  fixed  allowances,  but  we  mus£ 
have  spent  quite  that  much  each  on  clothes 
and  going  about.  Roden  has  had  an  allowance 
of  £150  ever  since  he  left  school.  We  must  have 
lived  at  an  awfully  high  rate;  what  with  the 
car,  and  the  house,  and  holidays  and  entertain- 
ing. We  have  six  servants,  besides  the  chauf- 
feur. .  .  .  Oh,  there's  no  end  to  what  we've 
taken  perfectly  for  granted!" 

There  was  a  long  silence  while  Caroline  con- 
templated the  extravagances    of    herself  and 
her  family.    Presently  Hugh  asked:  "Do  you 
208 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


think     Stella    will    marry    Geoffrey     Laken- 
bridge?" 

"  She  had  a  wire  from  him  this  morning  from 
Berwick  to  say  he  was  coming  down  to-morrow 
if  we  can  find  him  a  room  at  the  pub.  Of  course 
he'll  come  here.  I  don't  know  what  she  said  to 
him  in  her  letter;  but  from  that  I  suppose  she 
revived  his  hopes." 

"And  you  think  the  famous  interview  with 
Roden  brought  her  to  that?" 

"I  think  it  had  occurred  to  her,  naturally, 
as  a  way  out,  when  she  realised  how  bad  the 
crash  was;  but  I  can't  help  feeling,  though  it 
may  all  be  rot,  that  she  put  off  the  decision  with 
some  sort  of  an  idea  of  getting  hold  of  Roden 
— of  making  him  notice  her  and  be  fond  of  her ; 
and  that  when  she  found  it  was  no  good  she 
simply  took  the  plunge  and  wrote  to  Geoffrey/ 
"Not  that  she  wouldn't  have  done  it  in  the 
end,  anyway,"  said  Hugh.  "After  all,  no 
amount  of  affection  from  Roden  would  have 
made  a  very  restricted  and  uninteresting  life 
tolerable  to  her." 

"I  don't  know— people  are  queer.    T  think 

she  might  have  stood  it  for  quite  a  long  time. 

But  anyway,  Roden 's  too  much  taken  up  with 

Grace  and  his  work— Stella  doesn't  come  into 

209 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


it  at  all.  I  hardly  do,  although  he  and  I  are  so 
fond  of  one  another." 

"But  you  aren't  upset  about  him  and  Grace 
Draper,  are  you!" 

"No.  I  feel  he  belongs  to  me  whoever  he 
marries,  and  I  to  him  whoever  I  marry.  It 
goes  far  deeper  than  that.  I  don't  mean  that 
his  love  for  Grace  isn't  real;  it's  probably 
greater  than  his  love  for  me,  because  they're 
congenial,  and  pash  comes  into  it,  too;  but  our 
affection  is  independent  of  other  emotions,  and 
of  circumstances." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Hugh. 

Caroline  looked  at  him  with  unsmiling  satis- 
faction: "I  know  you  do:  that's  why  we're 
friends.  I  could  never  talk  to  Eoden  as  I  do  to 
you;  he'd  get  impatient,  or  irritated  to  my 
point  of  view;  or  else  he'd  be  too  taken  up  by 
his  own  affairs.  .  .  .  You  are  good  to  me,  Hugh ; 
and  I  don't  do  anything  in  return." 

"One  doesn't  measure  obligations  like  that," 
the  young  man  answered.  "Friendship  just 
is." 

"There's  five  striking;  they  must  be  having 
tea.  What  a  time  we've  been  talking."  She 
did  not,  however,  rise;  and  presently  Hugh 
said : 

210 


THE    SINGING   CAPTIVES 


"I  can't  help  thinking  how  at  home  Gerald 
would  have  been  in  this  affair — saying  all  the 
right  things,  and  making  your  mother  feel  gay 
and  interested  about  it." 

"He  would  have  made  losing  one's  money 
seem  somehow  a  kind  of  adventure,"  Caroline 
agreed.  "He  did  enjoy  life.  So  did  I  in  those 
days;  but  only  because  I  hadn't  the  faintest 
idea  what  things  were  really  like." 

"Gerald  would  have  gone  on  thinking  it 
splendid  and  amusing." 

"Yes,"  Caroline  agreed;  "I  believe  his  hap- 
piness was  real,  because  it  was  inside  him;  not, 
like  mother's  and  Stella's,  made  up  of  exterior 
things.  They  aren't  happy — I  don't  think  they 
ever  will  be.  About  Hal  I'm  still  not  sure.  Oh, 
Hugh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  of  a  conversation  I 
had  with  mother  yesterday.  I  was  asking  her 
about  money,  and  about  whether  she'd  ever  had 
to  economise,  and  if  so,  why  we'd  never  been 
told.  I  suppose  I  showed  that  I  didn't  see 
why  Hal  had  been,  need  have  been,  so  rash  and 
risked  almost  everything  in  one  venture;  be- 
cause she  suddenly  said:  'Don't  you  know, 
Cabs  darling,  men  must  have  a  hobby — and 
most  of  them  have  a  vice — women  or  drink  or 
betting  or  golf,  or  something;  well,  Hal's  was 
211 


THE    SINGING    CAPTIVES 


speculation.'    It's  her  same  idea  again:  'One 
must  pass  the  time  somehow.'  ' 

"Part  of  me  is  shocked  and  revolted  by  that 
idea,"  said  Hugh,  "and  yet  I  suppose  that's 
what  I  do,  by  means  of  work,  six  days  out  of 
seven,  or — if  you  like — three  hundred  and 
sixty-four  out  of  the  year;  but  on  the  remain- 
ing day  comes  something  that's  good  in  it- 
self." 

Caroline  remembered  the  blue  dragon  fly  by 
the  river  in  Monsal  Dale.  "Don't  go  to-mor- 
row," she  commanded  suddenly,  "let  your 
people  wait  another  day.  I'd  like  to  go  for  a 
drive  in  the  car  with  you,  even  if  it's  wet.  We 
shan't  have  the  car  in  a  few  weeks.  Do  you 
remember  going  down  the  hairpin  bend  on  the 
way  to  Longnor  last  year?" 

Hugh  nodded  at  her,  and  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  a  day  in  the  past,  and  of  to-morrow, 
they  shared  a  moment's  happiness. 

THE  END 


I 

A     000030456    e 


